You and Me (and the Blood We've Spilled)
by HasFar2Go
Summary: New truths are exposed between Liz and Red. They handle the revelations accordingly. Slow burn Lizzington. AU Post 1x14 "Madeline Pratt"
1. Prologue

**You and Me (and the Blood We've Spilled)**

**Don't own a damn thing. I'm just borrowing characters and concepts for the time being but promise to return them soon(ish).**

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><p><em><strong>July 2014<strong>_

**I**t's a stark scene she finds.

There's an industrial hum and an unwavering tick. The second part would be easy to confuse with the sound of a wristwatch if it weren't for the pool of red beneath the solitary chair on the bare concrete. The blue-blond light that shines through the gloomy windows is almost as anemic as Raymond Reddington, tied to the chair and bleeding out.

When Elizabeth decides to give up her hiding spot, the rubber treads of her thick soled boots scrape across leftover bits of debris on the concrete; the noise hisses and echoes in the vast space. With slight delay, the seated man's eyes open, finding her before him. He acknowledges her by pressing his lips together.

If he is surprised when he finds himself staring at the barrel of her gun, he does not show it.

His eyes slide shut in understanding - he can't nod.

She fires.

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><p><em><strong>Years Ago<strong>_

_**T**__he bang causes everyone to jump and then laugh nervously._

_Professor Bartsen's podium continues to rattle after he steps away, leans against the table, and when he moves to perch, Elizabeth Scott seated in the front row, two seats right from the center, cannot help but notice that his socks match in pattern but not color and that his hand is still violent red from the slap._

_She tries not to laugh, because it will make the next approximately 20 minutes hard to get through._

_There is chest puffing and a glance around the room to ensure he has their attention before he starts his story. There's always a story. Every class starts on the right track, but it derails and the students are left to listen to a former CIA man relive his glory days._

"_Half of the history of this country will never end up in your textbooks," he sighs and pauses for effect. "The steps that take place, the work we do every day behind the scenes, in the shadows, for your continued security, are incredible. _

"_Take for instance, the Gatz Project."_

_The class waits. If he is expecting any sort of comprehension - which is unrealistic, since he probably shouldn't even be sharing this story right now - he'll have to keep waiting._

_Elizabeth's pen hovers over the edge of her notepad, trying to determine if the information they're about to hear is worth transcribing into the expansive notes she takes. _

_(It's a habit she'll carry with her into the future, when she'll do the same in the classroom parts of her time at Quantico. Writing it down makes it easier for her to recall later.) _

"_In the late eighties, we were successfully able to use a gradual propaganda campaign to embed American Intelligence officers with pre-developed histories within a number of criminal organizations. The project consulted heavily with a group of us," he takes a breath to chuckle and she wonders if he has director's notes in his mind, "_lowly_ psychologists to assist with the right steps to take." _

_The student to Elizabeth's left sighs, just loudly enough for her to hear, and taps his pencil against his notepad. '_Boring' _is scrawled in poor penmanship across the edge of the page. Elizabeth doesn't nod, but flashes him a small smile of acknowledgement because actually, this _could_ be an interesting topic if someone other than Bartsen was giving this information._

_It's important to try to fit in. She's more than earned her spot in this program, and she's not going to burn a bridge with a potential study partner over a difference of opinion._

_This is the sort of practicality her dad's hammered into her, and it's stuck._

_The class continues, but Elizabeth's mind is miles away. Her worries are focused on her dad and the fact that he hasn't checked in like he is supposed to. Promised to. Uncle Timmy had promised their fishing trip would be fine, but she worries, as she always does. _

_Her fingers run over the edge of her scar and she tries to focus on the man speaking in front of the group._


	2. To Carry the Weight of Unraveling

**A/N: Still don't own a damn thing. Chapter title from Sarah Mclachlan's Stupid.**

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><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**W**hen she's called in to work and finds out they're receiving a new assignment, Cooper must see the mild confusion on Liz's face, because he looks at her directly when he explains their newest target is not on Red's Blacklist, but he might as well be. Briefly, she remembers Red's ire the last time she intentionally took on another target.

"Chatter has confirmed that The Brigadier will be in our area tonight for a business transaction, and this opportunity may not present itself again," he elaborates.

A quick tap on the keyboard to her boss' left and the overhead screens are filled with the man's face.

This is a man living an opulent life with one eye over his shoulder. Ike Morrison is Caucasian, grey-haired and brown-eyed with a sense of vitality to him. A person would be hard pressed to tell you this was a man who gave up an impeccable military career to become a criminal king.

"Sounds like someone we know," says Ressler darkly. Meera makes a small noise that is somewhere between a grunt and a laugh.

Liz doesn't take part.

Anger is no longer a gut reaction to the mention of Reddington's name. He frustrates the hell out of her, yes, but he also gave up his safety in a bulletproof box for her, and he's probably done a lot more for her she doesn't know about. The concept is disquieting but not reviling.

She refocuses on the screens, and after a second or two, and is able to connect the man with the image she saw on the overhead projector in her college days. A little younger then, a little less worn.

In her class, the crimes attributed to him were different. The severity of some of the bullet points on the screen before her now has her stomach turning.

"We read about him in one of my criminology classes," she says out loud, "but they never mentioned anything about his involvement in the Buenos Aires '94 bombing."

She senses Meera standing up a little straighter beside her, just within her peripheral field of vision. She would turn to look at the CIA agent, but Cooper is looking at her.

"We don't share everything we know with the collegiate field, Keen."

Rebuked, she remains silent for the rest of the briefing. Liz notices Meera give the info on the screen a second glance before she turns to leave when they're dismissed.

For her, there isn't much to do. She's assigned to the surveillance truck so she can observe their target. Once he's brought in, she will spend time questioning him. If she cannot get info out of him (she hasn't even been told yet _what_ they want from him), they will bring in Meera, and the camera will be turned off, and they will ignore the screams.

To be honest, even her role in this assignment is foolish. Everyone knows she's there because of Raymond Reddington and his demands. Even the youngest team member at the Post Office probably has more related field experience than she does.

If they think she's going to tip off Red, since it's obvious he's being intentionally left out, they're wrong. Liz makes a point of being around the others and ensuring her phone is not in sight. Knowing their criminal consultant, he will know about this; she just wants it painstakingly clear she's not his source for intel.

In the past, this would be the time when Liz would call her husband to check in with him, tell him she was not going to be home for dinner, beg for his forgiveness, and then go back to work with guilt burning in her stomach.

Even on normal days, she doesn't even pull her phone out anymore.

The last thing she wants is for Red to be right about her husband, but her own continuing sense of distrust is what is keeping her from mending everything with her husband. There's a giant and expanding chasm between them filled with baby furniture that will probably never be used.

She doesn't mean to withdraw, not really. Tom is her _normal_, something she's never really had before he came into her life. She desperately wants to keep that. She wants to be wrong.

_And yet_...

"It's okay, Lizzie," Tom whispered into the dark the other evening, and his words carried over the cool sheets between them. "Couples go through rough spots. We're going to come out of this stronger, I know it."

She didn't feel comforted by his words, she felt like he was saying them to convince them both.

Shaking off the doldrums has gotten easier, at least. By the time they're ready to roll and get in position for the strike, her head is back in the game.

Their target is set to meet for a business transaction at a restaurant in National Harbor. The Gaylord is being used for some massive leadership convention, and the entire area is crawling with strangers who won't recognize one of America's Most Wanted sitting at the table next to them at the Old Hickory Steakhouse.

She can almost _hear_ Red's comments about the place being too tacky or their poor wine selection.

The surveillance truck, parked fairly far away, is warm, and bears the unfortunate, residual smell of Doritos and bagged popcorn from previous stakeouts. Liz wishes she could crack open the back door and let in some of the cool November night air and the waterfront breeze, but she knows it should be over soon. This is a quick grab and go if they do everything by the book.

Not that they ever do.

Not that it ever works that way.

Beside her Carl Spencer, a more junior member of their team - a fresh-faced, former football quarterback-type who has spent his short time with them channeling Ressler-levels of patriotism - leans back in his seat and cracks his back.

There is only a small burst of background buzz before Meera's voice comes through the old mic-and-headphone sets they've both been outfitted with - this is the secondary van, and it's outfitted with leftover tech that's seen better days. The CIA agent's voice is more confident than Liz's ever is in situations like this. "Target sighted approaching restaurant."

Elizabeth tenses and watches the screen displaying monitors inside the restaurant, waiting to see him in the lobby.

They seat The Brigadier in a back corner, where he chooses the chair facing the front entrance, with an emergency exit to his left. He doesn't appear to be armed, nor does he sit as if he is, but if he is anything like Red, he probably wouldn't need more than his fork to get out of this place if he was attacked.

"Any sign of his dinner date?" Ressler questions. Noise from the kitchen, where he is stationed, makes it hard to hear him. He receives a 'no' from another team member.

They wait.

Morrison waits.

Meera's voice starts to come through, but it's cut off. The static in the back lets Liz know she's still there, as does the visual she still has on the CIA agent, but something's caught the woman's attention and she raises her menu enough to block her face.

"Someone needs to replace me," she requests. "Someone he didn't see that day."

The comment is only cryptic for a moment.

The Brigadier's guest approaches the table and grips the man's hand with a strong handshake. The shape of the body, the face, and the clothes all match, but the mannerisms are so different from what she knows, she only truly accepts it's her husband when he laughs.

The only thing she actually knows about her husband is the way he laughs.

She seems to watch herself, disconnected and absent, push her seat back, tell Spencer she needs to recuse herself from this operation, and then waits, patiently, for that info to be relayed to Cooper. She's not looking at the screen, at her husband, or listening in. Spencer will be able to attest to the fact that within seconds of her husband coming into the restaurant, she removed herself as best she could.

Liz stares at the back doors and waits for them to open, focusing on the tiny spot where the light from the parking lot is sneaking in through a chip in the blackout paint. This is a shit van, she thinks absently. Her fingertips brush over her scar and she feels a wave of panic, hurt, and confusion start to rise and threaten to take her under. She's stuck here until the takedown now.

Spencer shifts in his seat, and the creak wakes her up enough to make her realize she lost time; a glance at her watch and she realizes she can't remember the last seven minutes.

Unfortunately, this isn't a foreign feeling. She still can't remember much of her travel to Nebraska after her father died, or her time there. The numbness is a familiar comfort.

Thinking of her father, however, reminds her of his effects sitting at home, in a house that Tom has access to. If they nab him along with The Brigadier, they're going to look through her house and those boxes. A sudden sense of urgency to protect those precious belongings wakes her up a little.

There is no way they will let her go home before they take her in for questioning - and if Tom gets away, it isn't even safe to go back. She has precious little time to secure those items.

"Fuck."

Liz can't stop herself, upon hearing Spencer's voice, her head snaps up and she looks at the screens and watches her husband leave the restaurant. There's an envelope in his hand.

If there had been a small part of her hoping this was a misunderstanding, it's gone now.

The younger agent's eyes slide from the screens to glance at her. She sighs, puts her hands up, and realizes this is not mock surrender.

"I'm just waiting," she assures him, tiredly. "I know."

The Brigadier leaves the building and the apprehension goes smoothly. It's quick, so quick and easy it leaves Liz's hackles up.

Her phone buzzes, and she announces her intention to reach into her pocket to hand it to him before doing so. So far, Spencer is handling being stuck in the van with a potential mole very well. The phone sits on the counter between them, occasionally lighting up to show the unacknowledged text from Tom. To be honest, replying to a text might actually tip him off.

_Paul's truck died. Still in the parking lot at the school trying to help him. (Might take a while since neither of us knows what we're doing.) AAA on way but says it'll be a while. _

Paul is a second grade teacher. He was at their baby shower. He had a little too much to drink and nearly pissed in her broom closet when he confused it with the bathroom.

Paul is probably at home with his wife and kids and has no idea he's being used as a cover by her husband for his meeting with a wanted criminal.

Her eyes burn with unshed tears. Why does part of this feel like failure on her part? She's prided herself on being smart, at least she did before she ended up at the beck and call of a world class criminal. How could she miss the signs that Tom wasn't the man he pretended to be?

The back door opens and the person silhouetted against the streetlight is short with shoulder-length hair. Meera. She doesn't think she could handle Ressler right now; crying on him after the Stewmaker had left things awfully uncomfortable for a while between them.

"Agent Keen, if you could come with me, please," the other woman requests, her voice quiet. Soft.

Liz takes a deep breath, pushes out of the chair, and walks awkwardly, bent slightly over, until she can step down and out. Immediately, she hands her coworker her firearm and informs her that her cell is in the van with Spencer, and he's had it since they sighted Tom.

She is proud of herself when her voice only breaks twice on the last part.

The red and blue lights from a patrol car blocking the street are blinding after she'd spent so long in the dark of the van. There's a SWAT team standing nearby, now finished with their work, and a few others from the Post Office, who don't make eye contact with her. At least they're keeping this discreet.

Meera's touch at her shoulder blade is deceptively gentle as she leads her to a sedan parked in the back of the parking lot, away from everyone else. "It'll just be a minute. The sooner we get started, the sooner it's over."

"Sure," Liz manages to choke out. After she swallows again and feels like the burgeoning internal hysteria is at bay, she trusts herself enough to ask "Do you have anyone following him?"

Meera shakes her head subtly as she opens the back door of the car, and continues to look over it, avoiding Liz's eyes but radiating a quiet anger she knows well. "We were instructed to continue as planned and not tip him off."

"If you get my phone to Aram, he might be able to use it...track him maybe. He usually has it on. Tom, I mean."

Meera looks down at Liz at that. "We'll do what we can," she assures her. An SUV closer to the front of the parking lot turns its headlights on, the driver's window rolls down and Ressler's face appears. He waves the CIA agent over.

Liz's door is left ajar, and it's a blessing. Working quickly, she pulls out the cheap little burner phone stored in her boot, and whispering thanks out loud that it's already powered on, she dials a number she knows by heart with shaking fingers while slumping down in the seat. She has a limited opportunity to use the thing and get rid of it.

Over the last few months, Elizabeth Keen has decided to start being a little smarter about her own safety. The last thing she wants, in case things with Red go sideways, is for there to be a record of unreported, frequent calls to the man to and from her personal cell. If Red used burners phones, she'd reasoned, she would too. If anything, she had guessed, he'd take it as some strange compliment, with her mimicking him. He had seemed flattered by her sudden request to use the new number of the week; he had made a game of getting the number before she could supply it to him. In the grand scheme of shit hitting the fan in her life, his knowledge seemed trivial.

Clearly this foresight is about to pay off.

Hands shaking and her heart rate skyrocketing, Liz finds her nerve-narrowed field of vision focused on the door handle as she listens to the line ring and waits for him to pick up.

"Lizzie! Did you mi-"

"-It's Tom," she cuts him off, finding her voice jarringly rough to her own ears. He grows deadly silent on the other side of the phone save for the crackle of air passing in a rush. Whether it's a quick inhalation or a sigh, she cannot tell, and doesn't have the time to consider. "You were right."

"I am sorry Liz."

He even sounds like he means it, too.

"I nee-" she stops, finding the words difficult to say, stubbornly stuck in her throat even after she swallows. "The boxes with my Dad's things. It has to be quick."

There is only a brief second of hesitation as he translates what she's saying, understands what is inferred. A tiny bit of relief trickles through her when she realizes that all of their frustrating, cryptic half-conversations before tonight have prepared them for something like this.

When he speaks next, his voice is flat, deadly serious. "Anything else?"

"Birth certificates and passports are-"

"Same as Sam?" he interrupts her, and she hears a car door shutting on his end of the call. It seems like he will be handling her request personally. She'll consider what this is all costing her later, when it's safe to. There's a tiny thread of calm, just out of reach, and she internally reaches for it.

"Y-yeah."

"Just tell them the truth, Lizzie. You're going to be fine," Red assures her, voice dropping an octave, the gravel strangely soothing.

She ends the call, takes out the battery and grinds both parts under her boot heel. She throws most of the small fragments out of the car and into the shadows below the adjacent vehicle when she is certain no one is looking and the rest is pushed under the floor mat.

Before long, Meera returns to the car, and the two women are on I-295 northbound in silence. Liz looks out the window without seeing.

He knew. Red _knew_. All this time, he could have…

No, no that was wrong. He _did_ tell her the truth, but after Tom had been questioned and walked out of the Post Office a free man, she'd attributed all of it to Red and some sick attempt at breaking up her marriage to get closer to her.

She owes him an apology.

She will owe him quite a bit more after tonight. Trusting him with her father's belongings and those documents is a risk, but one she has to take.

Now that the decision is made, she thinks over the items in her house that she values...at the moment, they're all linked to Tom, and she'd rather start over.

Even the idea of going back to the house is filling her with dread. And anger. Anger at Tom's deception is starting to filter in, and Liz isn't entirely sure she isn't going to break something when she goes back.

She wants it all gone. Wiped clean. She doesn't want there to be anything left that will remind her of their relationship or the memories they created in that house, now that she sees it for what it is. The betrayal. The misplaced trust.

She's seen that kind of anger in action before - the remains of it at least. She had questioned, when the intel came in, why Raymond Reddington blew up his family home.

The suddenness of the connection makes her choke on a sob.


	3. Glow in the Darkness

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting! Chapter title taken from 'Stars' by Warpaint.**

**Still don't own any of this.**

**Warning: Brief mention of child abuse in this chapter.**

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><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**H**ours go by.

It's difficult to say how many. The halogen light overhead is too bright, and it hums to show her that the world hasn't stopped, that this is all real, and she is currently at the Post Office in an interrogation room being asked to divulge the intimate details of her life to a man she does not know in an expensive but poorly tailored suit who did not even introduce himself. Liz sits hooked and strapped to wires that will say if she is going to spend her life in a jail cell or walk away with an insincere apology from higher ups for this experience.

There are small mercies, though: Meera is undoubtedly in another room, asking the Brigadier questions instead of sitting across from her.

The Post Office was empty when they came in - there was another operation taking place with a second team involving tech and some kind of recon. Liz remembers seeing Aram nervously strapping on a vest and knowing it was going to be a hard night for him. At least she knows that the beginning of her interrogation didn't have an audience.

"Agent Keen," the man on the other side of the table says - sighs really, and his tone falls in some middle ground between inconvenienced and accusatory. "Your blood pressure is excessively high. I'm going to have to ask you to try to calm down so we can continue."

She levels a glare at him, and bites back the initial two word response. "I'm sorry," she answers careful, and clearly isn't. "I just discovered the man I married is a criminal and everything I know about him can safely be assumed to be a lie. I have spent the last few hours telling you everything I thought I know about him, and realized that I have literally spent hours talking about my husband and know nothing about him. The last thing I would want right now is to inconvenience you, I assure you."

When they finally let her out, it's the middle of the next afternoon. Tom is probably aware they're on to him, she surmises as she stands for the first time and tries to get feeling back in her legs. She hasn't answered any of his messages, and he's probably escalated to calls. Right now she wants the quiet and dark of her office until she can make arrangements for a hotel room...not that she'll get rest there. She's going to have to now keep an eye out for her husband.

When she steps out into the hallway, she notices Ressler standing in the observation room across the way. Beyond the edge of his arm, she catches a glimpse of Meera beyond the one-way mirror.

Ressler spots her in the dimmed reflection, and turns to look at her. "Keen," he acknowledges as if it were any other day.

He says nothing about the last few hours, or Tom, and she finds herself relieved. Tiredly, she nods in lieu of a greeting and comes to stand beside him, leaning against the edge of the window frame.

"How long?"

"She's been at him since we got him in eleven hours ago and the guy hasn't said a word. Physical, emotional, whatever, he won't crack. He's given his name and verified he is aware he is wanted for a laundry list of crimes, but he won't give us any details…it really is like talking to Reddington."

Her coworker on the other side of the glass has her suit jacket off, and when she speaks, Liz can hear how rough her voice is from overuse.

"Mr. Morrison, if you don't talk to me, there are others who will come in, and they will get answers out of you, and their methods are far more brutal than mine. Do you understand?"

There's something usually very calming about Meera's voice, but right now, there is a hard edge of ice beneath the civility.

Ike Morrison nods. He leans back in his chair, inhaling deep and easy and unlike a man whose lip is split or sporting a swollen eye. If it weren't for the brutality of his face, it would be easy to mistake him for a man watching a baseball game or sitting on his porch. "I am aware of the process, Agent Malik. You will threaten, as you have been doing, and hurt, as you have - and well, I might add. And I will tell you this now: it will not matter."

Meera stands, slowly with a sigh, and collects her blazer before turning to go. She's giving him time. Time to answer her.

He responds, but he doesn't answer.

"Do you know what happens when Uncle Sam wants you?" The question is posed casually, conversationally. The CIA agent pauses and turns to look at him.

Morrison inspects his hands.

"What happens when you're blinded by some sense of God-ordained moral high ground and all that red, white, and blue? When he wants you to give him everything? He takes everything from you. Everything. He tells you to act like a monster and you become one. You have to, not because it's easy, but because it's the only thing you can do."

He pauses, for a moment, to smile at Meera. The gesture is thin-lipped, and intended to appear pleasant.

It would be, if it weren't for the blood in his mouth or the contempt boiling beneath the surface of his tone - Liz can thank her time with Red for being able to identify it.

"Beat me, threaten me. _It doesn't matter. _ You might as well shoot me now, Agent, because there is nothing you can take from me but my life at this point."

Liz can't help it, she inhales sharply and takes a step back, and has to take a few more to keep her balance.

Ressler is still staring at the Brigadier, but she sees the way he holds his jaw - the man's words have gotten to him. Even if it's just a little, that is significant with someone like him.

"Go get some rest, Keen," he barks, to keep her from asking anything.

She mutters a farewell and puts one foot in front of another until she makes it to her office and falls into her chair. Despite sitting for hours, she's exhausted and wants to crawl into a bed as quickly as she can. Her eyes close and they seem to burn, but it's better.

A night of sleep - strike that, an hour or two of solid sleep if that's all she can get and she's thinking that's what's probably going to happen- and she can process everything that's taken place: Tom, the implications of what might have taken place to cause Red to be who he is now, and a billion other things. A little quiet and she can start trying to piece together the puzzle before her.

But she can't get to that point if she's doesn't start moving.

With a bit of a dramatic sigh (she'll admit it) she opens her eyes and sits properly in the chair.

The white printout on her desk grabs her attention. It's a confirmation for room at a four star hotel in Crystal City. There isn't a checkout date.

This must be their form of apology...and a way to keep her from making contact with her husband if they were wrong.

There's a knock at the door and she looks up to see Cooper standing in the doorway.

"Thank you, sir," she says, getting the obligatory response over with.

"You'll have a security detail until we apprehend him, and we have the house under surveillance. This won't take long, Agent Keen."

"I appreciate it, sir."

The A.D. smiles at her, warmly. "We take care of our own," he explains simply. "Reddington has been quiet for a while, I expect he'll be contacting you shortly, and we'll need you at your best."

He ushers her to a meeting room to wait for the security detail to arrive and pick her up, which luckily does not take long. Introductions are made quickly, and she excuses herself to retrieve the duffel with a change of clothes she keeps stowed under her desk.

"Agent Keen!"

Liz spots Aram jogging to catch her; the gangly tech has a manila folder in his hands, thrust before him like a relay baton.

He's in one piece, but he looks a little pale, and there's a beady, nervous look to him.

"How did-"

He shakes his head, breathless. "Not important," he cuts her off. "This is, I just...I wanted to get these to you before you go."

A quick flip through the pages contained within the folder reveals information on starting the name change process for D.C. residents, as well as some hand scribbled pages ripped from a green-yellow steno pad scrawled with what appear to be lawyers' names, numbers, and addresses.

The yellow post-it note on the steno pad sheet almost goes unnoticed. She really needs sleep if her eyesight has gotten to be this poor.

_Friday Mall 5:30p_

Liz frowns and continues to stare at the note until a tan hand pushes the folder closed.

"Remember the thing with the phones?" he prods, dropping his voice while sticking his hands into his pockets and looking over her head at one of the screens. "It's...it's like that. But not."

It's another entry on her to do list, post sleep.

She thanks him for the paperwork, for saving her some time (because the man actually _did_ help her out in the process of trying to set up this clandestine meeting), hopes she's conveying her understanding somehow, and finds the group of agents assigned to babysit her for the time being so they can get on the road.

The drive is quick, and after reviewing a few instructions with the team, she sinks down onto a mattress she'd typically find to be too soft and thinks it's heaven. There's a spare shirt and drawstring shorts in the duffel to change into for sleep, but that would require effort and movement.

And then she remembers the shirt is one of Tom's and she's pushing herself off of the bed and advancing on the bag to remove the offensive article. She'll settle for putting it in the bottom of the trashcan in the bathroom where she can't see it.

That's when she notices the burner phone that's been tucked into the duffel bag.

"Son of a bitch," Liz breathes, her search-and-destroy mission momentarily forgotten as she inspects the phone that has seemed to magically appear in her belongings. Red must have stowed it there a while ago. Her own cell is currently still with Aram and the rest of the tech team. They've given her a loaner for now, with all of her contacts and info, but she's assuming it's tapped, like the room.

Strangely, knowing she has a way to contact Red feels like another measure of precaution.

Since she's up, she switches into the shorts and just keeps her shirt from the day - well, the day before - for sleep. Tom's shirt is pushed into the bottom of the bathroom trashcan, and she wads up several fistfuls of toilet paper to cover it, for good measure. Her bra gets stuffed back in the duffel bag.

Even as she crawls under the sheets, she feels the odd buzz of adrenaline, and knows she might not get any sleep tonight. Her body has already been awake for too long, and is still in 'hail mary mode', typically sustainable for a good 48 hours with sporadic coffee intake and bits of food. It's not conducive to the sleep she wants - needs really - since she has a feeling the next few days are going to be hell.

For safety purposes on this first night, she's keeping the loaner phone on her bedside dresser, right next to the Glock she's been issued. Even with the lights off, the red power light from the television reflects off the firearm and she finds herself staring at it.

After a second of deliberation, she decides to put it under the pillow on the other side of the bed. Time with Red is most definitely rubbing off with her because she finds symbolism in the move.

Speaking of the devil, she knows she should thank him and ensure he's not sending in some private SWAT team to get her.

With a groan, Liz throws back the covers, picks up the burner phone, and heads for the bathroom. A quick twist of the taps and she's got the water running.

The phone vibrates, causing her to jump, before she has a chance to even look at it to dial his number.

Gratitude is being replaced quickly by suspicion, and then anger in short order after that.

"Tell me you have a camera in here and you're a dead man."

"Succeed with that threat and you'd better make it worthwhile and collect on the reward, sweetheart." Red doesn't even sound the slightest bit perturbed by her threat, and she wonders how he doesn't take it seriously after she stabbed him with a pen.

The bastard is unflappable.

He continues speaking in an upbeat manner. "I can assure you I haven't put any surveillance equipment in that hotel room...your friends at the FBI, however, they're a different matter."

There's a pause, and neither says anything.

"You picked up on the first ring," he reminds her, but doesn't accuse, and she closes her eyes and sinks onto the edge of the tub.

With a sigh, she concedes and admits "I was going to call to thank you...for helping."

"You know, Lizzie, this room is only on the other side of the wall and isn't bugged, if you'd like to have this conversation in person."

She hangs up, curses, and makes quick work of retrieving and sliding her bra back on before grabbing the remote and turning on the tv. With the sound slightly raised to mask the noise, she moves to the adjoining room's door and swings both locks open. When she pulls the door open, she finds the adjacent hotel room door is already ajar.

Dembe is nowhere in sight; it's just Red, sitting against the headboard on the king-size bed still fully dressed save for a suit jacket laid neatly beside him beneath his ever-present hat, legs crossed at the ankles before him. He gives her a pleasant smile as she shuts the door, and ignoring the look of exhausted bewilderment on her face, raises his tumbler of amber liquid at her in greeting.

"When I'm actually awake, I'm going to start figuring out how you pulled this off," she declares, crossing to stand at the foot of the bed.

He takes a sip, watching her over the rim of his glass with unconcealed amusement, and grins broadly after he swallows. "The Feds still fill out paperwork when making middle of the night reservations for three hotel rooms within a commutable distance of DC. You just have to know whose office to bug."

He's being kind because he's trying to make it easy for her to thank him for his assistance, and she knows that. He's revealed his presence to her because he knows the last 30 hours have been trying - might even think this is a way to get her to side with him by showing more transparency than her husband or her employer. He has the room beside hers because…

She can't figure that part out now.

"I appreciate what you did," she tells him, and finds herself touching at her scar as she makes an effort to maintain eye contact with him. "With everything going on, I didn't have to worry about them finding anything about my dad, and that was...a relief. I appreciate your loyalty to him."

There's a small muscle tick below one of his eyes - he's processing something. Something she just said wasn't expected, and she wishes she knew what it was. Small triumph must show on her own face because Red places the glass tumbler down, rises from the bed in a smooth series of movements, and walks towards her - predatory in some ways. Of course, she thinks, he needs to gain back whatever control it was he thinks he lost by letting her see his surprise.

She doesn't budge.

He gestures to the credenza below the television, behind her, and she twists and sees the small white envelope sitting in stark contrast on the dark wood.

"The boxes are sealed and being kept at a storage place in Bethesda. The owner is an associate - the location is secure and discrete. The key and the password inside the envelope are all you need. Let me know when you want the address."

She feels a little more at ease with the key in her hand.

"Thank you," she says, running a finger over the hard edge of the little envelope.

His next words are simple, matter-of-fact.

"You need to know, Sam loved you from the moment he saw you."

Liz all at once wants to strike him, and embrace him, and tell him to stop. She settles for stepping away from him.

"Is that supposed to help me, telling me that?" she asks. She manages to sharpen the edges of the question with some of the hostility she needs to distance herself emotionally. "With everything going on right now, is that supposed to help me - comfort me? What, my husband is a criminal, but at least the man who took me in loved me?"

He's quick to answer, almost cutting her off with a bitter tone. "I am the last man who deserves to comfort you, Lizzie, but I know right now you are looking for some certainty. If there is anything I know about Sam, it is this: the man saw you, saw the situation you were in, and was willing to give everything up-"

"-What do you mean 'situation'?"

He's hovering, eyebrow rising, his mouth tasting and trying different words, different facets of the truth - she knows they aren't lies, now, after what's happened with Tom. It doesn't make it any better that it's never the full truth.

"Red." His nickname comes out harsh and desperate. A plea.

He blinks, his eyes on her steady, and his face is emotionless. "I can't tell you it all, Liz. There are things that you need to find out in your own time. When this is over, I don't want you to feel I misled you in any way."

Is that why he stopped trying to convince her of Tom's guilt? She accused Red of manipulating the situation, of placing blame. Told him to go to hell. This thing, whatever it is, went back even further, is even more important. To Red, the risks must be greater.

The woman bites her lip and watches him to see if there is a way to make him change his mind, any sort of tell, any kind of weakness.

She doesn't find one.

Liz feels her own shoulders slump, and when she blinks, the motion is slow. "Would you tell me what you can?"

Red gestures to the chairs by the window, on opposite sides of a small wooden table. They sit and face one another, one dressed impeccably, and the other a half-awake, bedraggled mess in sleep clothes.

The man takes his time sitting, clearly gathering his thoughts, and after putting the key on the table Liz sits back in her chair, trying to appear much more at ease than her body, seeming to hum with anticipation, feels. This is something for her to latch onto instead of worrying about Tom, she knows, and it's a gift that Red is trying to give her in a way. A distraction.

"Sam and I, we go back to the start together," he pauses, and licks his lips, and she waits, motionless as he finds the words. "Your birth parents were...they were not the sort of people who took to parenting well. Your mother was consumed by her own hobbies, and your father was…"

Red exhales heavily and leans over the table. His brows are knit when he focuses on his hands, fingers interlocked on the glossy enamel surface. "You were too young to have the injuries you had. And too thin. Sam noticed first, knew the signs from his own previous experience, and could not abide to see you continue on in the life you were in.

"He asked me to help him...he was like my older brother." Red's voice is tight, and before Liz thinks about it, she's leaning forward, covering his hands with one of hers.

The fact that he's talking about her seems secondary; she has no sense of ownership over this history he's relating to her now. It's alien, entirely removed from her.

Her childhood, what she remembers of it, was a happy one. Abuse was never part of that.

"So I helped him disappear with you," he finally says after swallowing twice, and trying to continue unsuccessfully once. "He cried on the phone that night. Said carrying you was like holding a bird, you were so thin."

Her weight was always a concern for her Dad, which she found strange since he always called her Butterball..._that's_ why he called her Butterball. The nickname both she loved and hated stemmed from this. Her free hand covers her mouth as the tears come and her gut clenches with grief.

When she can see through the tears, she sees Raymond Reddington's head is bowed, as if at confession.

"I am so sorry for everything, Lizzie. I am."

She shakes her head frantically, words unable to slip their way out of lips frozen in a grimace of emotional pain externalized, and settles for squeezing his hands.

She isn't sure how much time passes. Her tears fall and Red stares at their hands, swallowing and blinking, breathing unsteady.

Finally, she can talk again.

"_I'm_ the one who should be apologizing. You told me about Tom and I...I didn't want it to be true."

There's a flicker of something before he responds. "You had no reason to believe me."

Liz shakes her head again. "No, no looking back now there were so many things...bringing him in was something he must have prepared for."

"I have sources that tell me they do."

They. More than one.

Both Liz and Red are emotionally vulnerable right now, so she decides to push her luck and test her potential revelation from the car ride.

"Your wife," is all she gets out and she knows that she's made the proper connection. The hands in her grip spasm, barely perceptible, and he can't conceal the sharp quick whistle of air over his teeth, a hiss he tries to cut short.

No one ever mentions his wife. They've overlooked her in the files, and Ressler has expressed frustration in the futility of trying to find the wife and daughter, deeming them lost deep in Witness Protection.

"_You act like we're the same," _she'd accused Red, months before.

Had she and Tom adopted a child together, Tom could have used that child against her, and she can picture what would happen: she would have done whatever it took for that child.

In that hypothetical situation, she would burn the world down.

"Ask it," he dares her. Whatever was soft in his gaze before is hardening, and she regrets bringing this up now. In his shoes, she'd be angry as well.

Liz proceeds only slightly unsteady. "Was she...was she the reason you-"

"The reason I turned my back on our country?" he finishes for her, knowingly, words acidic. Red shifts, sits back in his chair, and their point of contact is lost. He gives her a sphinxlike smile, and she's reminded of their first meeting and how blind she felt then. She's reminded of the Brigadier, only a few hours ago. "Yes and no."

He's trying to throw her, which is baffling. This is the same man who warned her about her husband, told her what a mistake it would be to adopt a child...

"And your daughter?"

His lips part but there's a half second delay, and she knows, disappointment sliding over her, that she's going to receive another half-truth from him and she's too tired to fight for the rest of it.

He says simply "We both have truths we need to focus on discovering for ourselves."

Liz nods. The conversation is clearly at its end. She's afraid she'll do damage if she stays.

She plucks the white envelope off of the table as she rises to leave, and her movement is mirrored by Red, who then follows her to the door.

"Thank you for your honesty tonight," Liz says quietly, feeling it's a feeble token of gratitude now.

He raises an eyebrow. "I could be lying," he reminds her.

She shakes her head, slowly, and can't help the sad, wry pull on her lips. "But you weren't."

The Concierge of Crime evenly bids her goodnight.

(Neither one sleeps well.)


	4. Is This the Way My Mind Works

**A/N: Event planning at work totally screwed up my schedule this week. Sorry for the delay!**

**Chapter title from 'Two Small Deaths' by Wye Oak.**

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><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**E**arly November paints the Capitol with a gray pallor and the residents and guests retreat into layers of down and wool. The Mall, unsheltered and exposed, does allow the sun to warm Liz as she nestles into her coat; she tries to appear casual during her attempt to blend in while she walks near a crowd of young students. From the disaffected expressions on their faces, she imagines they go to school nearby, and this isn't their first visit.

She remembers her excitement upon initially moving to DC. Now she doesn't think of its political or historical significance, just the damn traffic those aspects of its personality cause her to do battle with when she's on her drive home.

Not that she needs to worry about sharing a car anymore.

Liz is saved from that sudden line of thinking when she spots Aram seated on a bench by the trees. She takes a seat close to him.

"What was wrong with the last spot?" he asks her, indignant, as he looks at the Reflecting Pool.

She keeps the daggered glare in his direction in check - the steps of the Lincoln Memorial might look dramatic in movies or television but they're not an ideal place during lunch break (she had suggested the change of time on a post-it note earlier in the week, since she wasn't going to be free after work any time in the immediate future) to carry out a discreet conversation with a fellow coworker when the implied reason for their meet up was going against their superiors' orders. She'd texted him to move locations and then she'd meet him.

"I've got a surveillance team until they catch Tom," she reminds him, and because sitting still like this is bothering her, she adds "Walk with me."

They time it so they're on the tail end of what looks like a European tourist group. The group is slow moving as they all take photos and then review them on their cameras. She hears bits of Italian. Aram and Liz keep themselves back by a few paces.

"What is it?" she asks, when it seems the NSA tech isn't going to explain this meeting without prompting.

He's quick to utter out an apology. "Sorry! Sorry, I just...I just realized this is like something out of a movie and this might be the second time in my entire career this has been close to what I imagined when I started."

The first being the Garrick's takeover of the Post Office.

"You doing okay?"

He shakes his head, not discomfited by her accurate prediction of the direction of his thoughts. "No," he says with a little bit of a bitter laugh. "But are any of us? That whole thing, and everything after. It got me thinking about stuff a little differently."

He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, and top of his head looks as ruffled as he seems to be internally.

He drops the volume of his voice so low she can barely hear him. Were anyone listening in, their mics would probably pick up the wind and nothing else. "That...that _thing_ we were doing? While you were uh, getting that person? Well, our thing was a second part of that."

She tries to piece together what he means, but comes up empty handed. "Little too vague, Aram."

"Someone was combing through the previous blacklist sites list and found a few in non-digital archives. I think it was still the ripple effect from your work finding Mr. R when we lost him.

"Order from above was to get to the place and transfer the database that was still there to some NSA servers. We're talking two decades' old stuff. Totally obsolete, but there were people that wanted it and for us to destroy the servers once we transferred it."

"You made a copy," she concludes, following where this must be leading, and remembering his squirrely behavior that last time he'd done something similar, with surveillance footage and phone records. "What did you find?"

"Here's the thing, Liz," Aram declares, and his earnestness tone causes her to look up at him quickly. He must see the silent chiding in her expression because he lowers his voice again.

"Our job? It's all I've got..._literally._ I never finished school. They contacted me and told me I was just wasting potential while I did my time for a handshake and piece of paper with a gold sticker on it. If I were to lose this, I've got a 14 year gap between the time I dropped out of college and now. Mr. R took the time to find out I wasn't involved, and he made sure I was cleared of suspicion. Having me hand over the papers to our boss? It made me seem important to him. Not _you_ levels of important, but someone useful. The guy protected me when it wasn't in his best interest."

A straggling middle schooler sprints between them in the opposite direction to catch up with his group and they are forced to jerk apart for a few steps.

"The point is," he continues when they are back in step again, "I know other people would have left him behind in the ambulance and called it a day, claimed they lost him. You did what you could to get him back."

Not that it was much good, but Liz sees the point he's making. Her actions made her concern for Red's safety clear.

"He's an important-"

Aram waves off her attempted excuse. "You know why I'm coming to you with this and not Captain America or Meera and it's not just because they scare me."

They've reached the part of the path where it curves to wrap around to the Atlantic Pavilion entrance and are immediately in a throng of people. Quickly, they maneuver around them, through the Pacific Pavilion, starting their walk in along the other side of the Pool.

"Is he in trouble?"

"I don't know," Aram admits. "But the scan was going fine when I saw Mr. R's name in the files - when you scroll really fast through something, do your eyes ever pick up on words for no real reason? It was like that. The thing is, those files existed from _before_ any timeline I've ever seen regarding his criminal history, so why was he in them?"

"I don't know much about his past that you don't Aram. You know Cooper's got my clearance blocked." She bites her lip and looks past him and over the park. He seems to vibrate with anxiety.

"What do you need?" she finally asks.

"I loaded everything to a remote server of my own, but I masked the transfers pretty well so I don't think anyone would catch it. My friend owns an internet cafe at a beach town in Delaware and let me set some of my own stuff up in a backroom there; I store my uh...my extracurricular stuff on that server."

When he catches the expression on her face, he says, a little more loudly than necessary. "Not _porn,_ Jesus!" He leans down and quietly hisses. "Just..If I can transfer it back locally, safely, would you look at it? See if it makes any sense?"

She stares at him and considers him. There isn't a single instant she can recall where she's doubted his sincerity or sensed an ulterior motive. His concern for Red is genuine, and she realizes the criminal has gained the loyalty of another person at the P.O. (although she takes issue with the method used - fear).

Her curiosity is already captured. She wants to see this info for herself.

"I can't make any promises while I have this detail following me, but...yes. Tell me when you have it and I'll look it over."

They separate, and Liz tries to melt back into lunchtime traffic.

She receives a mild dressing down from Cooper, but she explains she must have lost the agent assigned to her on the Metro and didn't have his number and it all gets settled. She won't go anywhere near Aram for fear the tech will give away something.

When the work day is finished (another day where the Brigadier refuses to give them info; he seems to be waiting for something or someone), she's escorted back to the van.

Liz requests to stop by her house to pick up some clothing and Cooper approves. She's stuck in the hotel for now and she overheard talk of moving her to another location; having her own clothing is a little bit of control back in her day.

When they pull up to the curb in front of her house, she's told to stay in the van while they do a search of the house - the surveillance team in place since the other night has already reported in that perimeter has been untouched.

Five minutes pass before she's allowed in.

Stepping back into the house for the first time in over 48 hours isn't unusual; she's spent plenty of nights either at work or on the road for work. Coming home to an empty house is new - well, it was new within the last few months. Knowing her husband is certainly not waiting for her makes the house feel brittle, too bright, and empty.

"I'll only be a few minutes," she assures the agent by the front door - Greta. She knows her first name is Greta but that's about it.

Greta nods. "Take your time," she tells her, but it's rehearsed and insincere.

Liz goes for the clothing she has hung up and ironed, already paired for anticipated hectic days. Throwing those suits in a suitcase for the transfer to her hotel room will only require minimal pressing when she takes them back out. With extra time stuck at the hotel, she might use the gym for the first time in months. She finds a few articles of gym clothing wadded up in the back of a drawer and tosses them on the bed.

The back door clicks. There's a loud _thump_ downstairs and what sounds like a grunt and Liz feels herself drawing her gun before she can process it. Her heartbeat is immediately throbbing in her ears and she tries to control her breathing so she can listen.

She dials the Post Office line and barely starts to whisper her call in info when there's gunfire downstairs by the front door. Greta gives a yelp and glass breaks. The intruder - it has to be Tom - must still be down there. She can get a few rounds in from the top of the stairs if she moves _now_.

Liz barely clears the door before Tom is tackling her to the floor. She calculated it wrong or he's faster than she thought. Inertia has her falling backward and the impact with the wall and then floor, while predicted in the previous split second, yanks the breath from her lungs. The gun is still in her grip but Tom's working on getting it out of her hands. The knee she tries to drive upward is squeezed between his and useless.

There's nothing but heavy breathing and scraping of broken glass and wood - in a removed sort of way, she realizes she took down a couple of the photos on the wall when she fell. Tom's breath hits her face and his face is close but his eyes _his eyes his fucking eyes_ are so emotionless and he's not wearing glasses and she tries to tell herself to focus, damn it.

He presses on her hand in just the right way and the gun drops the two or three inches out of her flailing grasp to the floor.

Her husband pushes it out of the way and keeps her other hand pinned down. He doesn't have a weapon of his own, but if he wants to, he'll be able to hold both her hands with one of his and do damage, probably choke her.

Potential defeat makes her cry out in frustration, but now that her hand is free and she is trying to keep it from being captured, she twists it and grabs at some of the broken glass, smacks him in the side of the face, and presses in.

Tom yelps in surprise and pain, and she bucks her hips on an angle while continuing to push the glass into his cheek until she can half push him off and half wriggle out from under him. She makes it onto all fours while reaching for the gun before he reorients himself and grabs at her ankle. Her fingers scrabble across the hardwood floor to reach the weapon but feels hope start to sink in her gut when he gives a yank and she slides backwards and the floor rushes up to meet her.

Self-preservation has her turn her head to the side to keep her nose from breaking, and Liz is very aware of the glass now embedded by her cheekbone. Undaunted, she continues to try to reach for the gun.

"Knock it off, Lizzie!" Tom growls through gritted teeth and it's the use of her nickname, so precious, that draws a surge of fury in her. She flexes the leg not in his grasp and drives the heel of her shoe into the underside of his jaw and immediately pulls herself on her elbows to the gun.

Footsteps squeaking and pounding on the first two steps - she can't wait to see who it is. Cool metal touches her fingertips and she's already rolling to point the gun at Tom.

Elizabeth Keen doesn't hesitate when she pulls the trigger - she's got near-perfect aim and tags her husband in the right shoulder.

She hears "Agent lower your gun!" barked at her seconds before one of the men from surveillance pushes Tom onto his stomach to cuff him, ignoring his grunt of pain when they move his right arm. Curley, one of the other men from surveillance, sidles around Tom and the agent cuffing him to help her up off the floor. He grimaces when he sees the state of her hand.

Six minutes. That's the time between the first gunshot inside being heard and the guys from the surveillance van hitting the upstairs landing. Six minutes.

By the time she gets outside, Tom is being put in the back of a van and they're carting him off to the P.O. for questioning - they'll bring a medic in to look him over there, since they're last injured criminal escaped from the hospital he was taken to. One of the agents from her security detail is leaving in the back of the ambulance and the other two wait inside for body bags.

They try to corral her over to the rig for her assessment, and she asks for them to move it inside the house, but then she realizes her entire fucking pretense of a home is a crime scene and gives up her argument.

It's not like the neighbors watching the spectacle are going to be her neighbors for very long after this.

The cuts on her face are ruled abrasions and quickly bandaged, although her hand requires more time. She sits on the lip of the rig and they start the process of removing the glass embedded in her palm.

A black luxury sedan flies down the street running lights; the siren's wail that bounces off of the row homes of Twelfth Street is slightly off key and beat from what the team is using. Heads turn and everyone watches, tense, to see who is getting out of the car.

It's Red, and it looks like he's _seeing_ red. Liz knows he'd go straight for her before he even clears the other side of the car. He seems to take up more space than normal and commands attention and she thinks this must be what he looked like back in the day, in uniform.

Frustration bubbles up in her. Raymond Reddington is still mostly an unknown to her, but he always seems to know what to say to get her walls to crumble, and she can't afford that right now. So she feels her spine straighten, and she tries to grab hold of that simmering anger for Tom and throw it at Red.

She'll start with the misappropriated siren. "Where the hell did you get a-"

He glares at her. _Glares._ It's a look filled with impatience and dark anger and Liz feels the question die in her throat unfinished. "Can you give us a second?" she asks the EMT who is trying to inch himself away from the newcomer now crowding them and the man seems all too happy to comply.

Red comes to stand with barely an inch between his torso and the outside of her thigh.

"Where are they?" Red asks, words rapid and emotionless. "Where is your security detail?"

"Dead or en route to the hospital. They had no way of-"

"-I'm not particularly interested in you defending these incompetent idiots, Elizabeth. Cooper has n-"

"-_Reddington_," she snaps, cutting him off, and she knows her voice is shrill and a little indignant, and she doesn't give a shit. If he's not going to tell her why he feels a need to keep her protected, or even more importantly, why he should have a right to act this way, she sure as hell isn't going to allow his theatrics to play out in this public venue, with who only knows watching.

The rebuke serves its purpose. His lips are parted, and he seems to be looking for something to say and coming up empty handed - she wishes she could capture this moment on film for posterity.

He moves on to his next task; man's gaze softens as he seems to survey her for injuries. When his glance slides over her cheekbone, she notices his hand twitch in her peripheral vision.

It nearly makes her regret her harsh bark and its entire unspoken command. Even if she doesn't understand the _why_, she knows now: when she speaks, he's going to listen to her and try to give her what she wants and needs. Even before giving up the safety of the box, he'd given up his own safety to turn himself in and start whatever this is.

She's going to find out why, she will in time, but knowing she holds that power over a man like him is enough to handle for now. Strangely, she doesn't want to make his weakness seem obvious to others - well, any more than it already is. She wants to protect him, and he is discontented right now with failing to do the same for her.

This knowledge sits strangely on her shoulders and in her gut.

His eyelids slide shut slowly when she tries to give him an apologetic look for the chastisement, and she sees his nostrils flare for a brief second before some of the tension bleeds from his frame.

"Are you going back to work?" he asks with an ease that is well-rehearsed. Liz stares openly at him for a moment before answering.

Do the others see this? Can they see the character that is Raymond Reddington, or are they too focused on his reputation to even notice?

"Y-yeah. Yes. I'll need to tell them what happened. Give my account."

His head dips in acknowledgement of her words, and he sways and turns to inspect the front of her house, focusing his eyes on the building even while he seems to still be paying attention to her.

He'd give her the ride back, she knows. He'd go in, thunderous, and lambast Cooper. If nothing else it would just confirm once more she can be used against him as needed.

She'll turn down his offer and hopefully sound indignant and cross when she does so.

She has no idea where she'll sleep next, but it won't be in her bed in this house, and it won't be in the same hotel room. Call it paranoia, she doesn't care, she's requesting a hotel change and for it to be done off of the books, paperwork skipped.

She can't make it too easy for Red to find her later, after all.


	5. A Train to Train-Wreck Town

**A/N: Sorry for delay! This fic is now AU post 1x14 "Madeline Pratt". Keep in mind I still don't own a damn thing.**

**Chapter title from "What's a Girl to Do?" by Bat for Lashes**

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><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**H**ours go by.

It's difficult to say how many. The halogen light overhead is too bright, and it hums to show her that the world hasn't stopped, that this is all real, and she is currently at the Post Office in what might as well be an interrogation room while she goes over the course of events that just took place in her house. Her husband is the one, this time, hooked and strapped to wires someplace in the building she's not permitted to see, but it's already absolutely certain he will be spending a great deal of time behind bars after this.

The team has found a lot of damning evidence regarding his involvement in a dozen deaths within the last two years - some ruled accidents, others blamed on other people. A few are open cases and there's pressure to get him to admit his guilt.

Several of the cases were already dates and times she'd questioned him about in their house, and Meera had asked him about.

Cooper is scant to be seen.

Her earlier decision to change hotels still stands, and she hasn't ruled out the theory that someone else could be working with Tom, and they could still be looking for her - why, she's not sure. She imagines it's got something to do with Red, or something Red knows, but honestly that's all part of the bigger puzzle and she can't even inspect those pieces right now.

She wants to, though. In particular the pieces sitting on a server in Delaware, but she's stuck taking baby steps for the time being.

Liz stares at her computer screen and figures she has done a reasonably adequate job of translating six minutes of rage and terror into four pages of second-by-second clinical Fed-speak in her write up and determines it's time to call it a night.

Day. Afternoon. Whatever it is.

She's aware of the throbbing in her face beneath butterfly bandages and in her thickly wrapped hand and scrounges through her desk drawer for the jumbo store brand ibuprofen bottle she'd stowed in there when she started working here.

The Post Office doctor is a diminutive owl of a man who spends his time in the small medical area one floor up. He gave her another looking over and determined sutures weren't prudent for the hand injuries. After telling her to stick to ibuprofen for pain, he hesitated for a second, looked at her with pity magnified by his large glasses, and then went over to the pyxis system and dispensed several nights' worth of sleeping pills.

She is bound and determined not to use them. She's going to be sleeping with one eye open for the time being.

There's a knock on the door and Meera's 'polite coworker smile' greets her and it's a welcome change from the condoling looks she's been getting...when she's not being watched with suspicious eyes by those in the P.O. who question her innocence.

She gave her husband a makeover with the collateral damage of their sudden hallway redecorating plans and a bad shoulder that will let him know when it's going to rain. She doesn't want pity and she is losing her patience with the mistrust.

"I'm breaking for lunch," Agent Malik announces. "Care to join me? My daughter had a party at Chuck E Cheese's last weekend and I've needed a real slice of pizza to get the taste out of my mouth since. I already cleared it with Cooper and we'll have security detail."

Liz's dubious faith must show, because Meera adds, "You'll be with me and I'm armed."

She trusts Meera a hell of a lot more than a group of green or greying agents eating McDonalds in the back of a van.

"Pizza sounds great," she replies, and locks her computer. "Anything sounds great right now; I can't remember the last time I ate."

The flash of concern in her coworker's eyes is quick and quickly covered. "Come on, I'm willing to do battle with the pre-Thanksgiving shoppers and the lunch crowd at Amy's if you are."

Liz laughs and it feels a little novel. "You must be pretty serious about this, then."

She grabs her purse and the heavy weight of metal at the bottom of it is actually a comfort.

"Make a point of raising your shoulder a bit; you can tell you're carrying," the CIA agent suggests and Liz thanks her as they walk out of her office.

Liz isn't very good at small talk; she can manage it when it comes to interactions for profiling, but in actual social situations, she always fumbles. So she sticks to something she knows very well: food (eating it at least).

"Next time we're in New York for a case, we have got to get you to a _real_ pizza place. It's just not the same here," she declares as they head to the elevator.

Meera goes along with it. While the elevator doors open, she asks "Everyone says that but is there really a difference?"

"Yes there definitely is, Agent Malik."

Red and Dembe, who is armed and looking tense, are standing before them in the dilapidated old lift. With grace but a little force, their criminal consultant takes Liz by the arm and turns her around, leading her towards the back staircase. Meera voices protest at his actions, just as Liz does, but Red ignores them both and continues explaining "It's got something to do with the mineral deposits in the water, actually. Fascinating stuff, but we're going to have to cut this conversation short."

"Get your hands off of me," Liz demands and wrenches her arm out of his grasp. Concern for him aside, he has no right to manhandle her. "What is going on?"

"I did some digging and found out the meeting between the Brigadier - do tell my old friend 'hello' for me when you see him, Agent Malik - and your husband was to hand off info and payment for a hit. I reviewed the info from the incident at your house and it doesn't appear Tom was armed."

They're rushing for the staircase with Dembe in front, his tension evident in the hard set of his shoulders. Meera, acting on instinct, moves to cover their backs and she brushes her blazer to the side to put a hand on her firearm.

Liz, now moving on her own volition, tries to run through the events again as they practically run through the hallway. "You're right. He wasn't armed...he wasn't trying to kill me, was he?"

"He had ample opportunity but didn't take it," agrees Red.

"He wanted to get caught," she reasons, and looks over at Red, who is happy to see she's caught on even as her anxiety rises. "He wanted to be brought here."

He nods. "Agent Malik, I need you to tell Harold it would be in everyone's interest if you moved Tom Keen to another location for the time being. Agent Keen is going to be joining me in my b-"

Overhead, a siren starts screeching.

"Go!" shouts Meera, who pulls her gun from the holster outright.

"You can be angry with me for this later," Red promises Liz before he looks to Dembe with a barely perceptible nod. In the next instant, Liz feels the taller man's arm go around her waist and she is lifted over his shoulder as they sprint to the familiar metal platform in the center of warehouse space. She's deposited in the soon-to-be-enclosed area.

Red stops only long enough to start initializing the secure hold's lockdown - when he was given that info or clearance is a mystery to her - and then jogs over to them.

"With me, Dembe," he instructs his security guard while he pats him on the shoulder, keeping him in the quickly closing structure. He adds darkly, "I'm not having a repeat of last time, my friend."

Meera calls Cooper from her phone, informing him of their location before running back in the direction they came from. Liz watches her leave from the inside, realizing this is a new perspective for her.

She should be out there, helping her team - strike that, it's probably better she's in here and not out there. Her teammates would know she was a potential target while they were searching the locked down building for him. He killed two people yesterday and went into the situation unarmed; he intentionally took it easy on her to gain access to the building. Who could say he would be as lenient given a second chance.

This actually is a smart spot to put her in, as much as she hates to admit it.

She glances over at Red, and is startled to see he's staring at the glass of the front wall, or rather, staring past it.

No one ever cleaned the glass after the siege.

She watches his Adam's apple bob with a thick swallow and he stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets, turning to take in the space with an unaffected expression.

Liz wonders how many people would have a different opinion of the man if they actually took the time to _see _him.

He's expecting her to lash out again. She's sleep deprived and gun shy and she usually doesn't handle her anger very well around him and with everything taking place right now, he's waiting for her to start in on him. His inspection of their space takes him to the other side of the area, opposite from Dembe, for both men's protection she realizes, should she snap.

He keeps her on her toes. Time to return the favor.

"You shouldn't have done it that way, but thank you, _both _of you," she amends, "for protecting me."

Red stares at her for a second, trying to predict what her next move is, before letting out a laugh.

"No verbal sparring, Lizzie?" he questions, "What are we going to do to pass our time, hmm? I'd suggest 'I Spy' but that becomes exhausting when you play it long enough."

"You could answer some of my questions," she proposes while sitting on the low metal cot, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Dembe try to stifle a grin.

Red chuckles. "Already covered that part of our routine on the way here, my dear. I think the sleep deprivation and critical incident stress are getting the better of you. You can always answer a few of mine and we'll call it even."

Cool and collected, the man seats himself on the other end of the cot.

It's frustrating, thinking she's making progress (progress towards what, she's not quite sure) and then they end up back here.

She asks softly while watching him for his response, "Is it always going to be like this? Is every conversation going to be a transaction?"

She can't look away even if she wanted to; Red's expression is flat, but there's something piercing about his gaze, imbuing his words with more meaning than they ought to have. "This _is_ a business relationship, is it not, Agent Keen?"

Liz doesn't answer; she is more than aware of the cameras in and surrounding the box. She tries to keep her face emotionless as she asks, carefully "You called the Brigadier a friend. How well did you know him?"

He's answered her questions and protected her, and in what she hopes he understands is a sign of trust, she asks for one more thing.

"We may have run in some of the same circles," he responds, "shared acquaintanc-"

Dembe is out of his chair and she hears the click of the safety on his gun before she sees a person advancing on the box. She never even noticed the alarm turn off.

It's Ressler.

Beside her, Red snorts. "Fitting," he mutters under his breath, but pitches his voice just loud enough for her to hear as he stands to greet the man.

"Agent Ressler," he calls out with his usual forced pleasantness. "Have you caught him, or did you pick this moment in the middle of a situation involving an escaped prisoner to reminisce about our little meaningful moment in this box?"

Ressler ignores the question, and instead walks over to the keypad to enter the access code.

"The situation is over," he manages to inform them before the beeping from the opening device grow too loud to talk over. He waits, impatiently, until the sequence is over and continues.

"The Brigadier is dead."

Stifling her initial shock, Liz watches Red beside her for his reaction.

There isn't one.

"I take it he was Tom Keen's target?" he finally asks, raising an eyebrow.

Ressler responds with a curt nod adding, "He admitted to it. Broke out of the interrogation room after knocking out the agent in there with him, crawled through the ceiling, and dropped into the holding area."

They had searched Tom over thoroughly before bringing him in - even checked his teeth and gums. The agent who had gone into question him had been entirely unarmed.

Brute force. Her husband had killed a man with brute force. Strangling would have taken too long if they were rushing to try to grab Morrison and move him, which meant whatever Tom did was quick.

He probably snapped his neck.

Morrison was a man just as paranoid as Red; the second those alarms went off, he would have been watchful, waiting.

Unless he anticipated the attempt. Welcomed it. Ordered for it to happen, all the while knowing the money drop would be what brought him in.

Liz feels a rush of dizziness and bile rises in her throat. She closes her eyes to steady herself.

"Donald, I think you ought to take Agent Keen here to the medic, she's looking a bit peaky," suggests Red, and his voice prompts her to get her bearings and open her eyes, set her shoulders, and try to appear more confident than she feels.

"No. No, I'm fine."

Ressler watches her, brow furrowed. "Cooper said he wants to talk to you when you have a second."

Which she knows is just a nice way of saying 'Now'.

"Okay, alright. I just, I just need a second." She gives Ressler what she hopes is a brittle smile, and as expected, he mutters an excuse to leave before the tears start.

She waits until the sound of his footsteps stops echoing off of the high ceiling and turns back to Red. There's a wicked glint in his eyes when he sees hers are dry.

"My god," he laughs, "what are you doing here Lizzie, you are _wasting_ your potential."

"I'm pushing it, I know," she starts before diving in to what she has to say. "But I need two more things from you."

His good humor transforms into something more serious.

"I'll see what I can manage. Tell me what you need, Lizzie."

**S**he knocks and waits for Cooper to allow her to enter, and when she does, she finds he looks like he hasn't left in days, and his shirt bears creases from his recently removed flak vest.

"You wanted to see me sir?"

"Take a seat. I saw the camera footage, Keen. I know why you weren't with us," he assures her. "I wanted to see how you were doing, and that was _before_ what just took place."

She tries to keep her shrug to a professional, subtle movement. "I've scheduled my session with the mandated counselor."

The Assistant Director exhales heavily. "That's not exactly what I meant, Agent Keen."

Liz sits back in her seat. "These last few days have been...difficult. Very difficult, actually," she admits after taking a deep breath. "I was going to request some time-"

She sees him start to open his mouth, and she rushes to continue. "Reddington refuses to work with anyone else, I know. That's why I already got the next name from him."

Liz offers him the folder she's kept on her lap until now. "Name, details, pretty much everything you'll need, according to him, for you to arrest him. As unconventional and undesirable as you find the situation is, sir, I've tried to make do."

Cooper looks over the information, but she knows he's processing much more than the information before him. He's probably thinking about ways to cut her out of this, or how to get her to admit how she got this information out of their criminal liaison when she wanted it and not on his own time.

"He was very adamant this was a one-time offer," she adds, remembering the rest of their conversation and picking through it for appropriate truths to share. She grits her way through her next sentence, because the next part _does _bother her. "One of his stipulations was his choice of my cover on the next assignment where it's required, which I imagine will be soon if I know anything about him, but I felt it was a fair trade.

"A week, sir. I'd like to request a week off. No security detail - I will check in every other day, but right now I need...I need time away from this, from this place. There are some parts of my father's estate that need taking care of, and I'll need to firm up living arrangements."

The house on Twelfth Street is being combed over by techs for evidence, and Liz has already had the surreal experience of seeing her personal photos spread out on a table and being inspected by a member of IT.

Cooper considers this for a moment, lips pressed firmly together. "This operation depends heavily on your involvement, Agent Keen," he finally says. "I believe what you are asking is more than fair...although the idea that you are out there without any protection is worrisome to me."

"I have reason to believe Reddington has someone following me, sir. I'm protected, at least for now as long as I'm in his good graces."

It bothers him, it's obvious, but Red's constant need for security is well known.

"Very well. We'll see you in a week, Agent Keen."

Liz walks back to her office with more energy in her step than she's felt in some time, finalizes her report, and stops by Meera's desk to leave a note explaining her absence, as well as a raincheck on their lunch.

After a moment of consideration, she decides to go ahead with another part of her plan and stops by Aram's desk. He's still visibly shaken from what took place earlier, and it's evident in his jumpiness when she starts to approach - he immediately spins around in his seat to see who is coming up behind him.

"Didn't mean t-"

"No, it's not you, it's me," he's quick to assure her. "Moving past the opportunity to make a bad joke about how many times that's been said to me: What can I do for you Agent Ke-Scott? Is it Scott now? Do you _want_ to be called Agent Scott?"

She smiles. "Still Keen, for now at least. Too soon for a change legally." Liz pulls her notepad out of her bag and hands it to Aram, keeping her tone casual. "I'm taking the next week off and thought I might visit a beach, relax a little. Out of season means it will be quiet I think. I remember you mentioned one time a beach town I should check out, somewhere north?"

Aram's confusion is a brief thing. "I-yeah. Yeah it's a nice town...I mean, it's almost Thanksgiving and I know it's got to be freezing with the...I bet the room rates are great though. Let me give you the details - my friend owns a coffee place there. You-you should check it out. Great place."

A few minutes later she's leaving the Post Office in a loaner vehicle, a minivan they usually reserve for undercover work. The plates are switched for her use.

The shopping complex she drives to is forty minutes outside of DC, and she sees Dembe leaning against the town car after she parks towards the back of the lot.

"Thank you," she says as he opens the door for her and she slides into the vehicle. Leather and distinct cologne greet her, as does Raymond Reddington.

"Right on time," he commends her.

"Cooper didn't take much convincing," she explains. "How far down on your list did this assignment rank?"

"Pauolos? He's not even on the list. An annoying little bastard of an arms dealer, I assure you, but not much of a major player in the international field. Your people take him out and a friend of mine has control over most of the Washington State business."

Liz does her best not to gape.

"If it makes you feel any better, my friend has his own standards for ensuring proper use of his firearms before sale. He's ethical, as much as he can be. An honest sort of criminal."

And he's clear on the other side of the US, meaning the team will be focusing their energy and resources on a target far away from where she is.

He pats her arm. "Get some rest, Lizzie. It's a bit of a drive from here to the storage facility, and we'll be dealing with commuter traffic."

On the drive over she had steeled herself for his questions, knowing the flipside of their deal meant she'd be subjected to more than her normal amount of inquiries. An eye for an eye. A question for a question.

He's agreed to her proposal to change the rules, or remove them, for their interactions.

Red must notice her comprehension, because he turns to face the front and put his amber colored shades back on.

"You need some sleep, Liz," he reaffirms.

She settles back into the leather upholstery, and feels some of the tension start to bleed out of her. She's on her way to check on her father's things, and pick up the items she'd packed along with them. Her husband is locked up, his assignment seemingly complete. In her bag is the address of the server that hopefully houses some information on the mystery behind the man seated next to her.

"Wake me up when we get there," she requests in a whisper before closing her eyes.


	6. A Caffeine Stain on Your Midnight Soul

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting again. Still didn't gain ownership of any of this.  
>Title taken from 'Torn to Pieces (on Roses)' by Susanne Sundfør.<br>Thanks to tumblr user Agents of S.P.A.D.E.R. for the post regarding the paintin**g,** it helped immensely!**

* * *

><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**L**iz wakes to a gentle voice saying her name, and alertness comes to her in a rush. She sucks in air, eyes flying open, and finds when she shifts to sit up that she's been covered by Red's jacket.

"We're a few minutes out still," he explains, still keeping his voice pitched low and soft. "It's been about two hours."

It doesn't take two hours to get to this area of Bethesda, even in the worst of traffic.

They've just been driving around to give her time to sleep.

"Thanks," she tries to say, but it comes out as a mumble as she hands him back his jacket.

The corner of Red's lip twitches. The glare on his sunglasses keeps her from seeing much else. "It looked like you needed it," he says as he accepts the jacket back; she knows he isn't referring to the cloth in his hands.

They're in an upscale neighborhood, with large homes recently built on old land. The back of the neighborhood leads to a dirt road. Two miles beyond that, they reach a security checkpoint where Red gives them a password, presses his thumb to an offered iPad, and then enters a pin on the same device.

The storage facility is a house - a mansion, to be exact. Newer than it's plantation-feel seems to try to imply, but the grounds have been maintained for quite some time, judging on the size of the trees, and there's ivy climbing the carriage house.

Another glance with a perspective that is older but unused recently, and she can find no obvious holes or failures in the security; there's multiple cameras and a slew of armed men stationed around the property, their uniforms black and laden with a variety of weapons.

A theft attempt here would result in human Swiss cheese.

After a quick introduction in the foyer, Liz leaves Red and Dembe to catch up with the owner, Francisco, in the drawing room. She's escorted up the grand front staircase.

The second level has been gutted. A long hallway hugs the front windows, which are expertly curtained and have LED candles fluttering in their center panes, which she had been able to see from the car.

The outside has been made to incorrectly appear welcoming, while the interior upstairs floors more closely resemble a U-Haul on steroids.

The guard gives her a breakdown of the security features and shows her to a rich-hued wooden door. The lock is high end, harder to find commercially (although that seems a secondary precaution after the security patrolling the area) and would take more time and skill to pick than the standard sort. It's been given an after-market paint job to give it an antiqued copper finish that matches the soft colors elsewhere on the floor.

The inside is a windowless room; she has flashbacks to her shoebox of a dorm room. The inside of the door is reinforced with steel. Besides the desk in the corner, barebones and metal, Sam's boxes are the only other things in the room. The large overnight bag she's brought with her is deposited on top of the desk and she sets to work.

A quick inspection of the small stack of boxes confirms the tape sealing them is still intact. There's a small stroke from a marker on the lid of the box she's looking for, her mark intentionally discrete, and she lifts the heavy cardboard and places it on the desk, using the pocket knife she's brought with her to open the lid.

A hint of musty air wafts up, and she might be imagining it, but underneath that is the lingering scent of Sam's Nebraska home, a combination of citrus cleaners and lingering cigarette smoke. Nestled between some photos and a wooden box containing Sam's watch is her stuffed rabbit.

It was loved, but she remembers throwing it out after the fire - finding it in the box was a surprise the first time. It's still just as burnt and sad-looking, a reminder of that fire, but she finally is in a private enough place to be able to investigate the new weight the childhood toy carries.

The stitches in the back are small, but she slips the knife under them and rips them open. Hidden inside the padding is a small notebook - black, leather covered. She knows this little book very well.

The page of loose leaf that slips out however, is unexpected.

Unfolding it and seeing her father's handwriting is a punch in the gut in a way she could never anticipate, made only more painful when she sees he's addressed the letter using her full name.

_Elizabeth,_

_If you're reading this, I know this book is in good hands but things must be bad. Keep that spine and your head, Butterball. Be smart about this._

_I'm sorry if things ended like we talked about. Parents aren't supposed to ask that of their kids. They're supposed to be the strong ones. They're not supposed to be afraid of a hospital bed. I'm sorry if you think it was a selfish choice. If you hate me or you're angry with me, I understand._

_There are a lot of things I wish I was around to tell you_, _or maybe I have. I hope you're safe. Please know that none of it changes how much I love you._

_I know you can take care of yourself, Butterball. Even still, there are people who will look out for you. Parents don't stop being parents just because their kids grow up - we just worry a little quieter._

_I love you, kiddo. I'm proud of you._

_Daddy_

Liz places the note down on the desk. She feels like she wants to cry, but even though her eyes sting, it never happens. She's left with no escape from staring at the words and feeling guilt in the pit of her gut.

Dying sick and slowly in a hospital bed was her dad's greatest fear. Some might say a foolish one, since that sort of thing was highly likely, but really one of the very few fears Liz ever knew the man to have - and as she's only just learned, there were a great many things Sam could have realistically feared.

It started when her Uncle Corbin went to the doctor's after having headaches and migraines enough to keep him from helping with his usual work - boosting cars. Corbin made it an effortless art, and even hung over and sick as a dog, the man could deliver. For him to beg out of a job was unheard of.

The doctor sent him for tests. The tests found a tumor. The tumor killed him.

It's easier to summarize the story like that. It's harder for Liz to think about the months that passed where they all took turns with him at doctors' appointments and then in the hospital. Liz, in her sophomore year of college in another state, was unable to come back and visit until the very end. The man in the bed wasn't her loping and long-legged uncle then, just thin, papery skin and bones seeming to try to push their way out.

She joined her father and her family - a loosely associated group of people who were constantly coming and going and fighting and helping and teaching but always looking out for one another when it mattered - after the funeral to drink away the grief, and that was where Sam had asked her to make sure they both didn't go through what Corbin and his family had just gone through if it ever came to that.

Liz had initially waved it off as inebriated conversation, but it was something her father continued to ask her about, and ask her to promise. He said it nicely, he used lots of euphemisms, but Liz, on her last day home, whittled the topic down into a sharp, jagged statement:

"You're hypothetically asking your daughter to euthanize you, Dad."

The conversation stalled, since she refused to continue, and Liz went back to school.

It was only two months later that Maggie Cornish, her roommate, lost her father. He'd been hospitalized and too far down on the waiting list for organ donation. Maggie, adopted as well, wasn't a match, and Liz watched her roommate dissolve into a ghost even before her father became one.

When Maggie decided to spend the weekend at home with her mother after the funeral, Liz drank herself into a sobbing mess in her dorm room and called her father at two in the morning and agreed to his request.

They were both selfish like that. Sam didn't want to suffer, and Liz didn't want to watch herself become a numb shell like that, so powerless.

Sitting now in the room with his letter reminds Liz that she failed her dad, in a twisted way. Sam never asked much from her, but this one thing she could do for him, she'd failed at. It was why she'd argued so much with him on the phone; she didn't want to accept he was sick, and she didn't want to have to follow through with the promise.

She can't change what happened, she reminds herself. Her dad died in his hospital room, before his daughter or son-in-law could reach his side. It's over, it's happened, and now she needs to move on with things.

Red had given her and Sam a second chance at life, and she needs to know _why_ Red needed her before she can help him.

It's the second reason she's here.

Placing Sam's black notebook and his letter to the side of the desk, Liz returns to the stacks and searches through the unlabeled boxes to find the one containing items from her college days and subsequent time at Quantico. She doesn't need all of it, just the ones from her criminology classes, and transfers the dog-eared notebooks and a binder to the waiting weekend bag. The small notebook goes into her purse.

She seals the boxes back up with new patterned novelty tape - harder to replace undetected should someone want to go through the boxes - and exits the storage room to return to the first floor with the guard.

Red notices her entrance while Francisco is still talking. There's the quick flicker of his gaze to the heavy bag on her shoulder and he's gracefully finding a way to end the conversation with a promise of a return in the near future. She shakes the owner's hand, thanks him and soon they're back in the car and travelling to her van.

"Was everything to your satisfaction?" Red asks, breaking the silence. Liz nods.

"Yes. And seeing it for myself gave me peace of mind. Thanks."

Red turns to the window before he speaks, but Liz has a feeling he's still watching her through the sunglasses; it's almost too dark for him to need them, not that she thinks practicality has ever stopped the man's sartorial choices.

"I have to admit, Lizzie, I was a little shocked when you told me you had those papers stowed away in your bathroom. That's definitely your old man's move."

"He had prepped for both of us," Liz explains, and rationalizes that giving him this info is a way of showing gratitude for his quick and efficient help when she's needed it, multiple times, in the last few days. "In case things with a job went bad."

Red makes a humming noise, considering the information. Liz turns to watch his face, to see his reaction, but sees firmly pursed lips and a set jaw and concludes he's considering her words, as they weren't what he anticipated.

"Hell of a time to choose to go to the shore," he remarks, as they pull into the parking lot and Dembe pulls the car up next to her van. Her hand hovers over the door handle. "The town's going to be dead for the holiday."

Liz turns back around to face him, looking him square in the eye, knowing he'll understand.

"Working on my truths," she says simply, and she watches him, trying to see what his real reaction is.

"Good," he says, levelly, but she sees the tiny muscle tic below one eye. The smile that stretches across his lips reminds her too much of the one he wore in the box when she'd been brought before him. "My people will keep an eye on you, but don't expect to see them."

Dembe helps her with the weekend bag and after she watches them pull out of the parking lot, she walks into Target and buys essentials for the week ahead; she's got the clothing on her back, a bag full of notes, and her father's notebook. She needs to temporarily replace everything that's currently evidence in the office.

Part of her gets a kick out of imaging Red's indignant response to the price and quality of the clothing she throws in her cart, but decides to stop the exercise when she finds herself in the lingerie section.

Snacks for the drive and the hotel room get thrown in the cart as well. So does a brand new spiral bound notepad and a suitcase - she's not going to walk into the hotel with plastic bags. The cart is pretty full by the time she checks out and the bags get thrown in the backseat before she starts on her way.

Her first stop is Millersville Extra Space Storage. Compared to Francisco's amenities, it's bare bones, but the small locker is well secured and has been for quite some time. It's location between both Baltimore and DC had made it ideal - long before she'd even started to doubt her husband's identity, that holdover sense of self-preservation taught to her by Sam had her renting out locker space under one of her old IDs and stowing away money and a few essentials. It wasn't a box in her floorboards; it was a hell of a lot more secure.

To be honest, she's not sure where things are going - everything with Tom has her questioning her understanding of the situation, and working with Reddington has taught her to be prepared. A week off from her job is not necessarily a week off from Red. She owes the man a debt and if he calls upon her to help him with something, she's got to be prepared. Improvisation is a necessity in her dealings with him.

There's an ID, two credit cards, and several large gift cards, as well as cash. She takes it all.

Her next stop is another two towns out of her way at big name convenience store where she buys two prepaid phones with cash and then barely makes it into a courier store down the street to get one overnight shipped. The man behind the counter scarcely looks over the information before giving her a receipt; he wants to lock up and get home.

On the way back to her car, Liz exhales, watches her breath form a cloud before her, and considers her actions. Her behavior is going to appear suspicious if she's being followed by someone from work - she's been keeping a close eye out while she's been driving, so she thinks she's safe for now. If anything happens, she's rationalized, she can say Red asked her to do it; turning the tables and making him go along with her plan could be interesting.

The FBI agent busies herself with packing her purchases into the suitcase before getting back on the road.

For now though, she's got to keep going. In the span of time both in the box and then after, Liz committed to this plan. She's getting to the bottom of what happened to Red because it also means she'll find out more about herself. It also means Red will have less to hold over her in future negotiations.

She's armed with her own class notes on Red and the Brigadier, and hopefully when she arrives in Delaware, with the old unaltered data from that server. Liz is willing to place money on the theory that info has been changed on both men since that data was saved, and not because they were appropriately linked to past crimes. There's a reason this old data needed to disappear, and she's going to find out why.

She's called Red a monster, and she knows him well enough now to realize that's not the case, not really. Like the Brigadier, she thinks he had to become one. She has to be careful with this theory.

Her precautions right now are based off of what she's learned from cases and Sam.

She's thinking like a criminal, and no, it isn't that hard for her.

It's dark by the time she reaches the shore town of Rehoboth, and the area is fairly quiet. The check in at the boutique hotel goes quickly and soon she's sitting on the top of a fluffy cloud of a duvet on a king-size bed and taking in the butterscotch yellow walls of the well-sized hotel room. The hotel is nearly empty and there's a chill that soon has her, pajama-clad, burrowing down into the sheets and the welcome heaviness of the duvet.

In the morning, she hits snooze twice before finally getting out of bed and managing to just grab an apple in the tiny dining area while they're cleaning up the breakfast items.

She'll have breakfast at the Coffee Connection in Lewes.

Her first stop of the morning is the big electronics store on the Coastal Highway to use cash and gift cards to buy a laptop and external hard drive - she's only planning on visiting the coffee shop once.

Mark Jacobus fits in well with the laid-back own, but Liz can't see how he fits, friendship-wise, with the animated, nearly neurotic tech back at the P.O. He accepts her excuse (friend of Aram's who he asked to look over Mark's system and update it) and sets her up in the back room of the small Main Street coffee shop.

Liz pulls out her burner phone and calls the other one now in Aram's possession thanks to the overnight courier.

"Hello?" he hesitantly answers.

"Aram."

"Liz? You sent me the phone?"

She closes her eyes, settles back into the cheap computer chair and holds her breath for a second to keep from exhaling loudly into the phone.

Aram figures it out. "Right. Okay, that's obvious now, sorry. I just figured this kind of thing was something Red would do. "

She ignores that.

"Aram," she keeps her voice down, despite the busy hum on the other side of the door. "You need to tell me what the encryption is on this thing. I wasn't going to call you at work or on a line that's monitored...you didn't report the phone, did you?"

"God, no, I'm not an idiot. Now give me a second to go over this in my head before we start for real."

Within minutes, he's walked her through the system and she's got the files before her, slightly grainy on the PC. After a nervous glance at the door, she pulls out the new portable drive and plugs it into the old tower. Aram has to help her through forcing the install to the older operating system.

When her search for 'Reddington' and two of his other aliases comes up with nothing, she passes this info to Aram on the other side of the call.

"It was 'Red'," he explains, mouth full of something, probably cereal, "I saw him referred to as 'Red'."

This is taking too long. Liz looks down at the packing for the hard drive and then finds the size of the database by clicking back. Twenty years ago this probably seemed like a large file for transportation, but now that information could fit on a $150 purchase from Best Buy.

Soon enough she's watching the little paper airplanes sailing across the pop up screen above the progress bar and countdown.

She thanks Aram, and hangs up.

Liz takes Marcus up on his offer of another cup of coffee, this time with a small sandwich, but declines the offer of a companion for lunch.

For someone committing what could amount to treason, she eats her lunch just fine.

Another 45 minutes and the process is finished. She packs up quickly, grabs a second sandwich for her dinner, and heads back to Rehoboth and her hotel room.

Anticipation and caffeine leave her jittery as she sets up the new laptop and plugs in the hard drive after ensuring any sort of wifi or bluetooth is turned off on the laptop.

This time, she searches for 'Red' as a known alias, and results pop up quickly.

The files are typed in, with no images. While she knows the image files were probably harder to store than the plain text, it still makes no sense for the files to have _none_. She pores over the files detailing the cases he was linked to and other intel for hours, until her eyes feel dry and grainy and her protesting stomach makes her take a break.

Her notepad, by this time, is covered with dates and locations, and none of them make sense with the information she knew to be _factual _about his past. How could a month-long absence to Hong Kong to sell illegal arms to a Middle Eastern terrorist group go unmarked in his Naval Academy record, which she had furiously studied before her first meeting with him?

She brushes crumbs off of her notepad and taps it with her pen as she reopens a file and rereads it. The writing is bothering her, strange as it seems. The writing seems too perfect for a field agent's quick typing. She's accustomed to the occasional misspelling or additional space or punctuation mark, and the absence of these typos makes her realize just how many she typically sees.

None of the files refer to him by name, only 'Red'.

Liz opens another file, and this one could be a novel. About half way through the file, she decides she wants to compare Red's files to the Brigadier's and moves her cursor up to the corner to close out of the window when her eyes catch on the actual name of the file and she freezes.

Embedded within numbers and letters is the word 'gatz'. Looking back over the other files, she finds the word in other file names.

"Son of a bitch," she hisses, and returns to the search screen to look up information on the Brigadier. Just as she suspected, the word 'gatz' is hidden in some of the other file names as well. Reading some of the older files on him reveals they have the same writing style, while the cases closer to 1990 included photos and further details in much less wordy files. Real intel with proof.

Scanning for the word 'gatz' as a file name only brings up matches for Red and the Brigadier.

Liz doesn't need to go back to her notes from college to remember the significance of the name. Back in college, the idea that the government would name a project after a literary character had seemed strange, but her current level of clearance has exposed her to other projects and operations with more obvious names.

He'd even said it, too. He'd _told _her "Everything about me is a lie," and she'd simply brushed the statement aside.

These files are captured prior to '89, from the beginning stages of 'Red' being created, rumors being spread by word of mouth amongst assets and intelligence agents. The reason none of them are fully linked to Raymond Reddington is because he didn't do any of the things now currently tied to him.

Had they used the name because they already had him in mind, or was it just coincidence?

She scrambles over to the bag with her old notes, pulls out the binder from one of her criminology seminars on contemporary history, and flips through the pages to the brief discussion of Reddington. Between her own notes from work and the ones in this notebook, she can only confirm his involvement in events after 1990, when he disappeared.

So what happened in 1990, or rather, what went wrong? She can't log in to the current database without drawing suspicion - if she's on vacation, the expectation is that she's not checking work email or researching any casework and wouldn't want to. She can't ask Aram for his info, because IPs are logged and while he could probably walk her through masking hers, it's too late (or rather, early, after she glances at the clock on the computer) for her to be any good to him.

So instead, she decides to use Google.

If she was more awake, she'd probably never do it. It's late-night rationale. She searches for a timeline of crimes occurring in 1990 and spends half an hour searching through the results with nothing standing out to her. She's not sure what she's going to do in the morning, she thinks begrudgingly, because this clearly isn't working.

Until the page she's just clicked on finishes loading and a familiar painting comes into view.

Liz leans forward in her seat and stares.

_The Storm on the Sea of Galilee_ stares back.


	7. Choked by a Weak Tongue

I want to apologize for the delay in updating - I rewrote this chapter twice. Just really got stuck on it, and I'm sorry for that.

Still don't own any of this, just borrowing.

Chapter title from "Strings" by MS MR.

(Psss. There's a link to the 8tracks mix with all of chapter title songs on my profile page.)

* * *

><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**S**he remembers the look on Red's face when she'd first entered the room the day she'd accused him of framing Tom. As angry as she was, she remembers the contemplative regret on his features as he looked over the painting.

At the time, she had given it deeper meaning, but maybe it was truly because of his past being connected to the painting. Was that the first time he'd actually been involved in criminal activity as 'Red'?

How the hell is she even going to bring it up to him?

Too much. It is too much to figure out tonight...or this morning, as it already is past 2 am. Liz stumbles away from the desk on legs far past the point of pins-and-needles numb as she quickly prepares for bed and climbs into her down-fluffed shelter. She wills her racing brain to slow down for a few hours so she can get some sleep and figure out the next step in her hunt for Red's past, and her own.

Liz barely settles into sleep when the burner phone, the one Red had slipped her, buzzes and brightens on the bedside table. With a childish whimper of protest, she sits up to grab the device off the bedside dresser.

"What?" she answers, pulling the phone into her cocoon of warmth. She isn't planning on leaving her current location or position unless the hotel itself is on fire, and only then if she is personally instructed to do so.

Hotels have fire doors these days, anyway.

"Whatever happened to the dog?"

Liz shifts and pulls back the phone to peek at the time displayed on it. It's 4 am, and Red's voice is pitched high and light. When she returns the phone to her ear, the man is still talking despite her lack of an answer, but she doesn't think she's missed anything of importance.

"-mean it, he was a shitty watch dog."

Liz doesn't let on that she missed half of his rant. "We decided to give him to our fri-" she catches herself, and grimaces "-to one of Tom's coworkers at the school. Hudson was cooped up all day by himself. It wasn't right...And he's a _good_ dog."

The man on the other end of the phone takes a loud gulp of something, and Liz gives the duvet an incredulous look for lack of having anyone else to share her disbelief with.

"He didn't even bark when I came in for a look around, d'you know that? All four times...And the requirements for being a good dog are sucking up for attention, humping things you shouldn't, and sniffing asses. That's a horrible defense, Lizzie. Politicians do the same things."

Liz settles further in, preparing for a long conversation. Of course he broke into her house - she's just surprised he's admitting to it. The man monologues normally; inebriated, who knows how long he'll go now.

"Why did you actually call me, Red?" she demands, trying to keep the half-awake, mostly exhausted amusement out of her voice.

"What is that noise?"

"It's the duvet. It's noisy."

"It sounds like it's smothering you."

There's a pause, and then she hears the noise of glass on glass, followed by something glugging. She can just make out him muttering "I miss those" in an entirely unaffected voice before returning to the phone and his feigned joviality.

"Back to the dog, Lizzie," he starts, but she interrupts him, now fully awake and catching on to his game.

"You're not really that drunk, Red. Cut the crap."

He's quick to respond, but she hears the half-second hesitation from the man who always has an answer ready for everything.

"What makes you think-"

"-You wanted to talk to me about something you didn't think I'd normally answer, something you thought I would find out of character for you. You reasoned I'd be more receptive to the topic since I'd be half-awake, and you're seemingly drunk, meaning we are both emotionally vulnerable."

Liz wishes she could see his face right now; part of her really enjoyed getting to see his reaction to her profile in the restaurant that night in Montreal.

"So what is it, Red? What did you want to talk about?"

"'Character'," he echoes, with a burst of dry laughter, and says nothing else, seeming to be lost in his own thoughts.

When he doesn't answer her question and there's nothing but their breathing for a while, Liz considers hanging up, but then mentally reviews their last conversation in the car. What had bothered him then, which might trigger the call now?

It was something about Sam, and her knowing how to hide the papers.

She doesn't have to prompt him, because he provides her confirmation with his next words.

"His plan was to get out, start over."

His voice is flat, but Liz knows it's a mask. She lets the silence stretch between them, the only noise their breathing, until he continues. "He said he wanted to give you a better life."

Liz can't help but defend her parent. This conversation is clearly not going to end shortly, so she tucks the phone between her cheek and the pillow before answering.

"And he did, Red. He loved me and gave me a family to grow up in. Maybe not a traditional one, but...Sam, he just...he tried I think, at first. The garage in the first town, that was clean. I think he just couldn't turn that part of him off. He was good, he just...," she laughs, closes her eyes, and lets a wave of nostalgia wash over her. "We certainly weren't pulling international jobs when I started getting involved, and I don't think they ever did much worse before that. It was petty stuff, comparatively. Never got caught, that I know of, so he was definitely still good at it. It was always fun, and a little scary, but aside from the fire, it was a good childhood."

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a sort of humming, noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. She hears another sip. "Just not what I pictured back then." _For you_, goes unspoken.

Liz stares in the direction of the window, the faint glow of Rehoboth Ave's streetlights filtering in through the curtains, which she can barely see over the edge of the covers.

"Well," she draws the word out as she considers her answer. She could reprimand him, tell him Sam owed him nothing, that he didn't have a _right_ to be upset about _her _life. She could.

But she finds herself trying to say something comforting to him.

After another moment of consideration, she says, "People in our lives don't owe it to us to live up to our expectations. Their choices, who they are, they can be really... surprising," she finishes, lamely.

"Is that what you're finding right now, Lizzie?"

Damn the man, he saw an opportunity to ask her about her progress and took it.

The FBI agent desperately wants to ask him about the Gatz Project, about the painting, and about how the hell he ended up where he is now due to the former two topics. The farther she goes with this hunt for the truth regarding Raymond Reddington, the more she questions just how much she's really even looking to find out about herself, and how much of this is simply because she just wants to _know_.

So she can't talk to him about any of it yet, not really. Not until she figures out her own motivation.

"Jury's still out," she finally answers him, intentionally vague. She could be talking about Tom, or Sam, he couldn't know.

"Good," he responds, flatly. "Get some sleep, Lizzie."

The ended call causes the screen underneath her cheek to light back up, and she pulls the device away and inspects the call time. Thirty eight minutes. She just spent the last thirty eight minutes talking to the Concierge of Crime in the middle of the night and it was a legitimate conversation. She turns the screen off, but doesn't make the effort to emerge from the covers and put the phone back before trying to get a little sleep before starting her day.

Liz wakes up only a few hours later and moves forward.

The boardwalk is bitterly cold; there's barely anyone out or around. Liz's attempt to take a walk is curtailed by the wind. She takes refuge in a tiny coffee shop a few blocks back from the waterfront and orders a drink with cinnamon and spice that warms and bites and wakes her up a bit more. After a sandwich and a refill, she heads back out and down the street to the local library.

If someone is on to her, they'd notice how close the IP on her laptop and the library's computer are, but up until this point she's been cautious, so she thinks she's in the clear. Her new notepad and the shared drive were packed into her purse before she left the hotel this morning, and they barely add any weight to the bag; her gun is also in there, and she's making an effort of correcting her posture like Meera suggested. She's being careful. She's trying to think ahead. If anyone is following her, they're good and she hasn't caught sight of them in the nearly abandoned town.

She'll have to commend Red's ordered tail during their next inevitable phone conversation because she hasn't caught sight of the person once.

She spends some time reviewing publicly available information regarding the Boston Museum heist in the library's limited selection of books on the subject and then on a computer terminal, but the info is next to nothing. She tries to remind herself she's attempting to unravel a mystery over two decades old, and mostly using information that's not entirely confirmed, but she still feels an itch under her skin, a need to figure this out. It could be a bargaining chip, or a sign of how far she's willing to go to learn to the truth.

Starting at the files on the drive back in her hotel room doesn't help much, either. She gets little sleep that night.

Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, rolls around, and there's a little more life around town. The pressure to get answers before her return to work is building, as is her frustration. It's not turning into a relaxing vacation at all, not that she planned for it to really be.

The FBI agent forces herself to take a walk on the boardwalk, properly bundled, and tries to clear her mind.

It doesn't work of course; instead, she worries over what is preventing her from making any progress, and what could help her.

Liz likes using the boards at work. Moving pages and info around. Creating links. Spatial-visual stuff.

She stops into the drugstore on her way back, grabs a multipack of scotch tape, Post-it notes, a ream of paper, markers, and cheap yarn in a few colors, swings by the shop from before for a large coffee, and enters her hotel room with her shoulders squared and a fierce sense of determination.

Liz starts writing down facts and dates as best as she can perceive them: when Red graduated from Naval Academy, when Red's car was found abandoned, and the dates of a few of the charges which she can confirm he was actually involved with from conversation with him. She tapes these in chronological order, left to right, across the entire expanse of the wall behind her bed and steps back to look at it.

It's barebones, a brief abstract of a life.

Hidden somewhere in this mess is her life, too.

Liz starts to fill in other information, adding what she can where she can, tacking Post-it notes above with questions to herself.

She adds in info like her own birth and adoption and the birth of Red's daughter, and sees the first and third dates are years apart. She leaves the Gardner Museum heist above the timeline, hovering without a piece of string to mark it as a part of his confirmed timeline. She walks around and stares and ignores the weak sunlight starting to glow behind the curtains and continues to work until head and limbs feeling heavy, Liz drops into the small arm chair leaning against the wall closest to the current side of the timeline, in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, and looks up at her work. There's so many blanks, perhaps too many blanks.

Maybe if she looks at it long enough and hard enough…

"Got to admit, this was definitely not what I was expecting."

Liz jerks her head away from the wall and finds she's part of the tableau being taken in by Reddington, standing in the middle of her hotel room.

Shit. She must have nodded off. Running a hand through her hair, Liz looks around to see how bad the damage is.

The hotel room is in shambles.

The desk is covered in paper, yarn, notepads and Post-it notes. There are takeout containers strewn around the room, and stacks of empty coffee cups. He's still in his coat, but the ever-present hat is hanging off of a corner of the TV. His hands are behind his back, and he is surveying her work.

Elizabeth feels her cheeks burn.

"Red, I-"

"-My people told me they hadn't seen you out of the room since yesterday. You didn't answer the phone. I called you twice," he explains curtly, eyes still sliding over the timeline, starting from the beginning and taking his time until he reaches 'now' and Liz. "You want an apology for breaking in, I imagine."

She should. She does, a little. Just not enough to say anything...At what point did she start to _welcome_ these invasions of her privacy?

When she doesn't take his offered opening to lash out, there's a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he starts to take off his coat and continues speaking as he drapes it on the edge of her bed.

"I thought you were here to learn about yourself, Lizzie." His gaze is level and face stoic, but she knows that internally, he's coiled, preparing, it seems, for whatever her answer is going to be, and probably already has half a dozen responses prepared. Raymond Reddington, playing the chess game of life. It's like the ease of their most recent phone conversation is gone and was never there.

Liz unfolds herself in the chair, unable to hide her wince when a muscle in her neck twinges painfully. "And I am. Our pasts, they're connected."

"One Post-it note on a wall covered with my life?" he questions her, and then gives a brief shake of his head. "You undervalue yourself."

Frustration prickles under the surface of her wakeful disorientation. "I know there's more," she says quickly, almost defensively, "I'm still working on the rest."

Now he's intentionally being aloof, a well-dressed sphinx in her hotel room. "Long way to go."

She seethes.

"Damn it, Red," she growls before she can stop herself. She's out of the chair and standing in front of him in an instant. "What do you expect from me? You told me _one_ piece of what I need. You think I'm just going to spend years happy to chase after the crumbs you drop for me to follow? This is my life, _mine_, and you hold it over me. You hold it just out of reach and I can't," she pauses to suck in a deep breath and try to calm herself down. She continues in a much more controlled voice.

"It starts with _you_. I had an opportunity to learn a little more, to help me start, so I took it."

Nothing happens for what seems like forever.

His lips part, and she's so close she can hear it when he sucks in air to talk.

"I'm worried about you, Lizzie."

His voice is low and calm and for a second she wants to question what he means before she realizes what he's doing.

"Don't redirect," she warns him, moving closer, intentionally invading his personal space.

He's unphased. "Liz, if you promise me-"

"Stop it."

He raises an eyebrow and ignores her barefeet coming into contact with the tips of his shoes. "Have you looked-"

"-Tell me the truth." She uses the steely voice that caused her coworkers to call her 'sir' back in New York. It goes unnoticed and he tries to change the subject again.

"Why don't we-"

"Tell me!" she shouts, the heels of her hands hitting him just below the shoulders and _pushing_.

They're close in height, and for a second, it seems surprise is working to her advantage when he takes a small step back and she continues to push, trying to put enough pressure on one shoulder to get him to turn so she can hold him against the wall.

"Goddamn it, Elizabeth!"

There's frustration and fear on his face and she falters.

He grabs at her wrists and before she can register what he's doing, he twists and gets a leg behind her knees. Liz falls gracelessly into a seat on the edge of the bed. Her hands still captive, Red takes his time squatting before her.

"Let go of me," she snarls, because there's _emotion_ on Raymond Reddington's face and right now she just wants to be angry and not think, not think about how he seems to care about her. She just wants to be angry at the Concierge of Crime who is manipulating the government for his own vendetta and using her as a _toy_ for reasons she can't discern. She doesn't want to see him as a person because it removes layers between them that she wants to keep in place.

She's scaring him. He doesn't have to say it because it's written on his face.

They're both rattled. There's something raw and _human_ about his expression, watching her, eyes wide and mouth parted. She struggles against him and repeats her demand.

"Liz, you've haven't really slept in days, and you've barely eaten."

The woman balks. "That's not true, I've been-"

"-Been ordering food and bringing it back here without really touching it? I don't even think you're aware of how little you've eaten."

She can protect herself with barbs and intentionally insensitive statements. Make him think she's immature, and brash, and maybe he'll stop giving her so much credit, maybe he'll give her answers and walk away. "Did the person you paid to _stalk_ me tell you that?" she asks, acidly.

He's not supposed to rise to her jab. "No, you're fucking garbage can told me," he snaps.

Liz actually has to look for herself to believe it. Since she's turned down housekeeping out of concern over someone entering her room, the trash hasn't been taken out. Boxes and bags from all the meals she's been grabbing and bringing back with her are in the trash, still filled. A pizza from the day before remains untouched, still open with one slice sitting half-eaten inside.

A quick count and the hours of sleep she's actually gotten since she arrived fit on one hand.

Oh god, he's right.

Red's grip of her wrists lessens but remains. "Before I got here, I thought you were trying to find out info on Tom, or maybe Sam. I thought that's what you meant when you said you were looking for truths."

Liz closes her eyes and exhales deeply as she shakes her head. "I didn't want to think about Tom, about what he did and how I felt and I - I jumped on an opportunity to fixate on something else. On you. I wasn't even _aware_ of it, I was so…" she trails off, swallowing the lump in her throat.

She reopens her eyes when she feels the brush of his thumb along her scar. It's a steady repetitive action, a sort of unconscious attempt to soothe.

"Red, I mean it though. I shouldn't have lashed out like that," she adds, "but I meant it. You drop hints about knowing me and having information about me and-"

He shakes his head, and tells her apologetically "I can't tell you everything, Liz. I don't-"

She does nothing to try to hide the plaintive but firm note in her voice. "-You could tell me more than you have. You wanted me to find out the truth about Tom on my own but this is _me_, and you, and I need to know."

The man watches her, assessing the situation, weighing out the scale of trust between them, trying to see if it's evenly heavy on both sets of shoulders and minds.

"I trusted you with my father's things," she reminds him. "And you trusted me enough to take me to that location - I could have easily removed my belongings and reported it."

He watches her for a moment, face emotionless. "Say things like that and I might question that trust," he warns her in a flat voice.

Too much of a hesitation in his response - it's an empty threat.

He changes tactics and states, pointing, "You've got info about Gatz up there."

"Yes," she says steadily, refusing to say more.

"Not many people know that I was involved in that...in fact, one of them paid for your husband to kill him."

"I meant it," she repeats her demand from before. "Stop redirecting. Bringing up Tom isn't going to distract me….Whatever you tell me, whatever it is," she assures him. "I'll still help with the list."

"That's a lofty promise from a person in your current state of mental exhaustion."

Liz exhales heavily. "I feel like I'm blind and drowning," she admits, swallowing thickly before continuing. "But how the hell am I supposed swim towards air if I don't know which way is up?"

The man looking up at her shuts his eyelids slowly, and the distance between them is small enough to hear the noise of his breath leaving him in a rush, feel it slightly on her chin and neck. He reaches behind him for the chair and moves to slide up and into it, leaning back and running his hand over his close trimmed head.

It's a thoughtful gesture, a nervous one.

Liz's hands feel cool and empty now that he's released them; she'd forgotten he was holding them until he let go.

The man leans forward, and Liz does the same, shifting to sit on an angle to face him better. He eyes her warily for a moment before declaring, "If this conversation is to take place, I have one condition: You say 'yes' to what I ask you after we're done talking."

"You _would_ find a way to get one more thing out of this," she mutters and then thinks 'fuck it', because she's already made this bed, and she's out of other options. She needs to remember to keep herself on her toes, but she won't come to harm, whatever he's going to ask her.

"Okay," she agrees finally and reluctantly. "Okay, whatever you ask after is a 'yes'."

Raymond Reddington rises from the chair after a moment and crosses around the bed to the note on the wall with her adoption date, and she twists and brings her knees up onto the bed to watch when he taps the wall there. His every move seems weighted with importance, slow and drawn out, or maybe it's just her perception.

"You want the truth Lizzie? It all goes back to this."

"My adoption," she states, shifting more to fold and cross her legs tailor-style on the bedsheets.

"Your father, your biological one," he corrects, and then puts his hands in his pockets. "Jacob Compton. Wanted in more countries than I can name and for more things than I could list. He has connections everywhere and there is no limits to what he'd do for a pay day. He likes high-risk thefts for the thrill of it. He likes his trophies."

She surmises she was one of those, in a way. A legacy. A doll.

A punching bag when needed.

"Our intent was to get in with his crew, embed ourselves...But Sam saw you and that was it. Getting you out became his whole focus. We did the job, and I managed to set it up, got you and Sam out and hidden from the Feds and from Compton; Sam knew I'd be under close scrutiny from both sides. We weren't sure we'd be able to cross paths again, not for a while.

"Compton raged. He _raged._ He'd accepted me into his crew at that point after I proved myself and he had us combing every possible lead to find you. You were stolen goods though, not an abducted child in his eyes."

Even if she tries, she can't remember that part of her life, and with every passing word from the man before her, Liz doesn't want to.

What does her kidnapping, for a lack of a better term, years ago, have to do with now?

The question sits on the tip of her tongue as she stares past him at the timeline for a moment before she has to ask it. "Did he ever find out you were involved?"

Her answer is a nod, a swallow, and a gruff "Yes."

"What happened?"

Emotion is wiped from his face before he answers. "December 1990 and the facts that are no longer contained in my files because someone deemed it important to remove: the safe house my family had been moved to became a crime scene. A crime scene with no bodies, mind you. They were never found. It was kept neat. Very clean. Just enough blood for me to guess at what happened."

Liz reels and tries to process what he's telling her.

Family for family. Daughter for daughter. Use the Stewmaker to remove any evidence Red could use to find out the truth.

Retaliation. Revenge. It fits for a man like Compton.

Liz covers her mouth, bile rising in her gut and she doesn't want to be right, but she knows. How can he answer that question so easily? How can he stand to work with her, knowing that everything that happened to his family was because of a man she was related to, and it started because of what Sam asked of him? Why would he actively seek her out?

Raymond Reddington is planning something.

He needs her. He has her. He'll do what it takes to keep her safe. He's told her these things, and proven them. If he wanted to keep her as a naive pawn, he wouldn't be telling her any of this - and it's the truth. She knows his tells now, and knows he's telling her the truth.

"What are you planning, Red?"

He takes in a breath in a hiss, and his turn to inspect the timeline is a hair too quick.

"You weren't supposed to catch on that quickly, Lizzie," he answers, voice smooth and controlled.

"Too late," she retorts bluntly while trying to not imagine where this conversation could be headed, because it does her no good to be prematurely angered. "What's the plan?"

He must be aware of how well she can read him now, because he seems intent to avoid her gaze, instead reading over her work on the wall. "The plan is in flux, at the moment. Depends on a few new pieces of information I'm waiting on."

When he offers no further elaboration, Liz studies the man in profile, trying to fit this information in with what she already knows, but finds there are still more holes in the picture of the past she's trying to put together.

Sam worked with him, and it sounds like he was even aware of Reddington's involvement in the Gatz Project. She wonders what her Dad's reaction would have been to this plan involving her and Compton.

He would have wrung the man's neck.

"Did Sam know you were going to use me against Compton?"

"No matter what, you were going to be kept safe," he says crossly, fixing her with a serious look, and adds, "but no, he wasn't aware of my initial plans."

"What changed? Why did the plan change?"

"I met you," he says, and the simple truth echoes with unsaid, complicated implications. Liz blinks, and before she can even open her mouth, he continues. "And I came to be in position of a photo taken by someone we both know quite well, and it confirmed what I was already half-suspecting: the Stewmaker was given a body, but it wasn't my daughter."

"The missing picture in the album" Liz frowns. "But you had to have some other evidence she'd survived before that, before you turned yourself in."

There's a spark of something in his eye, dangerous but happy to come to the surface, elated to be recognized.

"She didn't tell me before she died, but I found my wife contracted to kill Harold Cooper in Kuwait four years after she was supposed to be a corpse in Pennsylvania. If she had survived that night, my daughter may have as well."

He ignores the look of shock on her face at his statement. Raymond Reddington claps his hands together, tone instantaneously upbeat and pleasant.

"I think that's enough of that for today. I already know you're answer to the question, but I feel I still need to ask: Liz, will you join me for Thanksgiving dinner?"


	8. Stones on Weathered Shores

**Still don't own a thing. Chapter title from S. Carey's "Broken".**

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><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**L**iz feels her eyebrows rise and the extreme sign of disbelief causes her to feel just how dry and tired her face is.

"You can't stop there."

"Can and have. We're moving on to the next topic. Will you join me for Thanksgiving dinner, Elizabeth?"

"Dinner? That's what I was coerced into saying 'Yes' to?" she seeks to clarify in a high-pitched voice that Red ignores, instead arranging his features into theatrical offense. She heard it before, but feels the need to repeat it.

"Is it really that much of a chore to share a meal with me on a holiday? Lizzie, I'm hurt."

She stares at him, trying to keep frustration from boiling too highly in her. She takes a deep breath and slides off the bed. This is the second meal he's hoodwinked her into, and probably won't be the last. "Fine. Fine. It's going to take me thirty minutes..._if_ that's fine with you."

He does not respond to her sarcasm, instead he walks over to the chair, scooping up the remote as he goes, and settles in with an ease that piques her ire. "Take as long as you want. The chef's paid for the night. Dinner will be served when we want it to be."

With little to go on and no desire to continue to ineffectually ask the man questions, Liz does her best to scoop up clothing that's passable for whatever it is he's got planned.

Reddington is tuning her out, watching something on an educational channel as she grabs a black sweater with a hem low enough to disguise the band on the top of the black yoga pants also in her grip. She even grabs a hanger, clips the pants to it, and hangs it in the bathroom to allow the steam from her shower to help get the few wrinkles out.

About halfway through making sure everything she'll need is in the bathroom so there won't be any self-conscious moving around the room in a towel after, she looks up at her reflection in the mirror and has to grimace; she's a fucking mess. Granted, she has every right in the world to look like a fucking mess in the privacy of her hotel room if she wants, but she knows she's been unknowingly toeing a line of obsession and she's actually fortunate the man is keeping an eye on her.

Liz lets out a deep breath, shoulders slumping with disgust. She should be able to take care of herself; she's not supposed to decompensate so much.

She's neglected the thin gauze and tape on the palm of her hand covering the cuts from the glass for the last day or so, and removing the adhesive takes more time than she expected. There's going to be a peppering of scarred dashes across her palm to accompany the older scarring on the heel of her hand and wrist when this is done.

Her shower is longer than it has to be; she'll admit to herself she's hiding out a bit. When the FBI agent decides her fingers have pruned enough, she doesn't have to spend too long dressing and blow drying her hair, now feeling nervous that she's left Raymond Reddington alone in her room with her timeline and Post-it note editorializing for too long.

Right now, she can't tell what she's going to find when she goes out there: the man who will offer his arm or the man who will hold her at arm's length.

Only ten minutes over the time she promised him, Lizzie swings open the door of the bathroom and steps out to find the room has been cleaned. The computer and her notes are mostly untouched. There isn't a single trace of her timeline on the wall, but the pages are stacked neatly on her bed.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his jacket on, settled in but obviously ready to go when she is.

"Thank you," she says, and gestures at the room when he shuts off the television to look over at her. "You didn't...you shouldn't have to clean up after me."

"Think nothing of it."

When her eyes fall on the Expo marker in his hand, he holds it up as she comes out, wiggling it.

"My tech web internet hacks came up with this. Not sure how it works but it opens hotel room doors and scares the bejeezus out of me."

...Which explains how he got in. He could have left it a mystery.

"As a Federal Agent, I don't think I should be seeing that then," she informs him, but there's a nervous attempt at humor underneath the warning.

He smiles as he stands, and it disappears quickly into a pocket.

She steals it back when he opens the lobby door for her and she brushes past on the way to the car, just because she can and she wants to remind him of it.

He doesn't ask for it back.

The drive isn't long at all, and they stick mostly to residential streets that wind around and then run along the edge of the beach. Large homes line the road but here and there, there are walkways leading to the public beach behind them.

The houses get larger and more spaced out as he slows down. Ahead of them are woods, and the road turns suddenly to loop around towards the left, but Reddington pulls into the last house on the right. The gravel bounces loudly underneath the car and Liz glances up at the house before they come to a stop in the garage below the house.

The muted sage green and white-trimmed home is not his usual style of residence - the whole beach residential area isn't. It's similar to its neighbor, although it looks less lived-in. The rich-hued wood steps creak under their feet as they climb them to the front porch, adjacent to a wraparound porch.

"Just a small group of us," he informs her before opening the unlocked door.

The lack of security surprises her, but she realizes the perimeter of the property is probably being patrolled.

The door opens and the happy, high-pitched shriek of a child has Lizzie nearly jumping out of her skin.

"Relax," murmurs the man beside her, a hand at the small of her back and she doesn't immediately try to step away from it. "And no pen-stabbings, please...this is a house, not a hotel."

The house is palatial but a little dated in design, maybe 15 years or so. It's airy and furnished with comfortable furniture - family furniture. She smells turkey and something savory and her mouth waters.

Reddington gestures to help her with her coat, and it's just past her shoulders when Dembe comes around the corner to greet them with a smile.

"Agent Keen," he greets her.

"Dembe," she responds, feeling the small thread of anxiety in her gut grow; if Dembe is present, this is business.

He gives her a warm smile and there's another giggle somewhere down the hallway. He doesn't seem concerned by a child being present.

"Richard wants to know when he should prepare to serve," the tall man informs Reddington.

"Give us twenty?" he requests, and then gestures for her to precede him down the hall.

The hallway spills out into a dining room that then flows into the kitchen, where the aforementioned Richard is busily preparing dishes full of food. Continuing on after Reddington greats the chef and thanks him, they move into an informal den; there's a fireplace and massive LED TV.

Two little girls and the woman she can only assume is their mother from the way she's watching over their playtime are all dressed in similar shades of olive green. The mother looks up from fixing the wheel on a toy car to see who the newcomer is.

"Elizabeth, I'd like you to meet Aiza and her beautiful daughters - that's Nada and the little girl assisting a Ninja Turtle in his balancing act on the playhouse is Shiza. Dembe's sister and nieces always join us for Thanksgiving."

So she was wrong about the business part.

"Lovely to meet all of you," Liz says, to which Aiza flashes her a beautiful smile and replies 'Likewise', and then Red is signaling for her to continue past them to the two-story wall of glass windows that makes up the back wall of the room, looking out onto a patio above a small area of fenced off, patchy grass before a strip of stone landscaping separates the property from the empty, public beach.

Liz opens the door since she's ahead of him, and steps out into the chilly ocean breeze. There's the scraping sound of shoes pivoting that draws her attention to the right. Mr. Kaplan is standing beside an outdoor heating lamp, cigarette between two fingers.

"Thought I smelled your lack of patience," Reddington chirps as he moves past Liz to greet the bespectacled smoker. "You look well," he says before moving in for a hug.

"Same to you," Kaplan says, but looks over the man's shoulders at Liz with a critical eye. "You, on the other hand, look like shit."

Before she can say anything in response, the man between them laughs.

"I'll leave you two to catch up. Would either of you like something to drink?"

They both decline and Reddington excuses himself back into the house, looking far too amused with the situation.

Liz is left frozen in place for a moment, deliberating if she should go back inside to make her way through painfully awkward small talk or stay out on the porch with Mr. Kaplan, who she at least knows a little.

"It's warmer by the heater," the porch's other occupant says as she exhales smoke into the quick breeze.

Liz takes the few steps needed to bring her near the warmth and gives Kaplan a brief, appreciative smile with closed lips. She's not sure what she can ask or say - their only interaction before this involved disposing of the man Liz killed and then unsuccessfully searching for Raymond Reddington.

Mr. Kaplan looks Liz over from behind thick-framed glasses for the time span of another drag on the cigarette before saying "I don't think you looked this bad the last time I saw you."

"It's…I'm dealing with some things," Liz explains, hoping the subject will be dropped.

It isn't.

"And Raymond's helping you?" Something about the way the question is asked leaves Liz thinking the answer is already known.

Liz stuffs her hands farther down into her pockets and watches the surf. "I may have made a deal with the devil, yes," she decides to respond.

Kaplan gives her a long, hard look over those thick-framed glasses. "You met Aiza and her kids in there?"

She nods.

"The older one had a heart condition, needed surgery. There were legal channels to get her out of the country and to a specialist here in the States, but that would mean splitting the family up - not something anyone wanted. Dembe didn't even know Raymond's plans until it was done, and his sister called from the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia and asked if he'd come and see his niece before her operation.

"Raymond got clipped by a bullet in the process of getting them out of the country. Look close at Red the next time you're near him - he's got a scar on the back of his head from the graze."

Elizabeth doesn't make eye contact as she tries to not only absorb this new piece of easily given, private information, but what the professional cleaner is trying to achieve by regaling her with it.

She squares her shoulders before responding. "He's loyal to those he considers his friends - I know I'm considered one of those, somehow, if I'm here today. I know I shouldn't take that for granted...although I won't be guilted into feeling appreciative for it. I would never ask him to take a bullet for me," she adds, after a second of thought "Half the time he's the reason they're being aimed at me."

Kaplan's laugh is a scratchy, raw thing from little use and cigarettes. "Dearie, you really _are_ still recovering from your tussle with your husband, aren't you? You're correct about his loyalty to his friends...but as for what he did for Dembe? The man is family to him. His brother. Raymond was nearly killed trying to look after the people his brother loved."

Kaplan's pointy chin jerks in the direction of the doors. "You and I are huddling outside to avoid small talk before _family_ dinner. Dembe is going to sit at his right, and I bet you can guess where your seat will be."

"Where I choose to sit."

The answer isn't what Kaplan was expecting, but it's received with surprised pleasure. "Good answer."

The smoker is about to say something else to the FBI agent when the door opens and Dembe tells them it's time to eat.

Mr. Kaplan squats down to pick up the ashtray sitting next to the leg of a patio chair and waits for the door to close again before continuing. "As much as he cares about Dembe, that bullet graze was an accident.

"I know him. I've seen what he's like with you. For you, Raymond would not only take a bullet, he'd probably be the one to pull the trigger. I don't know _what_ you are to him, but it's significant. In our line of work, there aren't a lot of good people - he's the closest thing we've got to good. We need a little good sometimes."

And then Kaplan is walking past Liz and into the house.

She follows only a few seconds after, and the smells from the kitchen before are even stronger. The dining room table is weighed down with magazine-perfect bowls of food. As predicted, Dembe is sitting to Reddington's right, with his sister next to him. The two children take the last seat on the one side, as well as the end seat. Of the three seats on the other side of the table, Mr. Kaplan has taken the middle one, leaving Liz to make the decision between sitting next to Nada or Red.

She takes the seat next to the host.

Despite Richard's obvious presence for hours of preparation, Reddington insists on carving the turkey. There's the clink and scrape of china and wood as food is passed around and served. Conversation is mostly praise over the food, and it's light.

The two girls are well-mannered and cheerful, and Liz asks them the standard questions adult ask children; they're young enough that they don't see monotony in her queries regarding their favorite colors and favorite characters. They adore their uncle, that much is certain, and she appreciates getting to see this other side of the mostly silent bodyguard, particularly when he gets up at one point to help cut food up for Shiza and has the little girl hold the utensils under his hands to practice at it.

Liz says something at one point that has the man seated beside her at the head of the table breaking into genuine, healthy laughter, and something about the moment causes her to realize where she is, who she is with, and what they're all doing.

It doesn't go unnoticed.

"You look like Alice at the tea party," Mr. Kaplan declares quietly from her other side.

She shakes her head as she chews before finally answering, keeping her voice down so Reddington won't hear their conversation. "He might be a mad hatter but no, no this is just...it's just so _normal_."

Kaplan's eyebrows rise quickly. "What did you think would happen when you came tonight?"

Liz doesn't answer, because she's not exactly sure _what_ she thought would take place, but a picture-perfect family-style Thanksgiving dinner was not what she expected. She initially anticipated dinner for two, somewhere lavish, someplace an owner would come out and shake Red's-

That's where she was clearly wrong. Raymond Reddington is not actually 'Red'. This is private and personal and yes, she's been allowed an incredible glimpse into the man actually living under those layers of tailored clothing and theatrical airs.

She finds herself watching him as the meal continues - they all seem to have come to an unspoken decision to try to really make a dent in the incredible amount of food on the table. Richard joins them halfway through eating and takes the free seat at Reddington's invitation.

Thanksgiving dinners for the Scott family were usually loud and boisterous and shared with their patchwork family, taking place in cigarette smoke-addled and cramped old homes, the kind with screech-groaning screen doors that slapped shut behind you when you came in from playing in the dirt driveway, and shag carpets in muddy browns that didn't match the wood paneled walls. There was never a kids table, but there was always a football game on after dinner, and it wasn't always a turkey. Some years it was Chinese. Others, it was pizza.

But there was a warmth there, a kind of pleasant intimacy, and Liz feels it here as well.

When the last napkin is thrown on the table in surrender, Richard announces dessert will be served in an hour. The chef and the host set about gathering plates and refusing help, leaving the others to distract themselves with the short time before they will be settling into their chairs once again.

Warmed by the food and the half-glass of wine she's consumed, Liz grabs her jacket and wanders out to the back porch once more, taking a seat in one of the wicker chairs close to the heat lamp.

There's always been something hypnotic about the ocean for her - and it's strange, because it's not like it was a part of her life growing up. Maybe it's the novelty.

Elizabeth feels like her mind is clear out here; she can think better. She tries to think pragmatically about Tom Keen and who would have sent him into the life of a woman like her. They met while she was still in New York, and while she had ambitions to go further, her future in the FBI was still uncertain.

Whatever it was, it was a long play. She recognized now what all of those attempts to take her on vacation were: an easy way to gain him those crucial first 48 hours to get her wherever he wanted her without anyone really missing her.

His plan must have changed though; she couldn't see how killing the Brigadier and getting caught would help deliver her to whoever was looking for her.

Was it her biological father, trying to maneuver her away from Red's grasp?

"You were born in a town like this," her host declares to announce his presence and she jolts in her seat. Liz doesn't bother turning to look at him or acknowledge him; if he's leading with a line like that, he's interested in talking, getting her invested in the conversation with the promise of more little clues about her life, the debris of a mystery that has already been solved, in a way. "On the edge of the ocean. A little town...I think it stays with a person, in a way. It's hard for people like that to find the same sense of calm elsewhere."

"Speaking from personal experience?" she asks, her voice half-muffled by the arm of the chair she has been using as a headrest, already anticipating a vague half-truth as an answer as she hears the sounds of him settling into the wicker seat next to hers, inches away from her head. She recalls Massachusetts on a birth certificate in his files.

"Navy for a reason, Liz."

And that's it. He says nothing else. There's just the wind and the waves and the seagulls keening and their quiet breathing and Liz feels herself nodding off.

The jacket being adjusted on her shoulder wakes her up. Raymond Reddington is leaning over the side of his chair, reaching along her back to grab at the edge of her jacket sliding off of her. She can smell his cologne - she can't identify it, but she has to keep herself from inhaling. There is a split second of hesitation on his part when he notices that she's awake and staring up at him, but then he continues the action.

"It's cold, perhaps we should move back inside," he suggests, looking out at the water and not at her.

It gives her a moment to regard his profile. There's the scar, a small spot of scarring on the back of his head, disrupting his closely buzzed hair.

She's not sitting on the porch beside Red, the Concierge of Crime. She's sitting next to Raymond Reddington - she's having dinner as a part of Raymond Reddington's family.

"This is...this has probably been the nicest Thanksgiving I've had in a while," she says, and he turns to her with a smile.

Whatever he starts to say, he thinks better of it, instead saying "Let's go check on dessert."

After a slice of the most delicious apple pie she's ever eaten, Mr. Kaplan and Richard say their goodbyes. Liz argues her host into allowing her to help clear the table and they move quietly around one another and the kitchen while Dembe and Aiza corral the two girls upstairs for baths.

It's all strangely domestic.

He catches her looking at the clock as she wipes her hands on a dish towel.

"It is late. Take one of the guest rooms if you'd like, get some sleep."

She actually takes him up on the offer and finds herself crawling fully dressed into a bed with expensive sheets in a sparsely decorated room upstairs. Her work phone has a couple messages from Aram and Meera wishing her a happy holiday and she answers them before turning in. She sleeps soundly for a short time before finding herself staring at the ceiling. After ten minutes goes by and it's obvious she's not falling back to sleep, Liz throws back the blankets and pads downstairs.

Wine. Wine will definitely help.

She was informed about the guards patrolling the perimeter unseen, but she still feels anxious about walking around this foreign, silent house in the middle of the night.

She grabs one of the drying wine glasses and the bottle of red that was opened earlier and pours herself a healthy glass. It's halfway to her lips when she hears noise nearby.

Her gun is back in the hotel room - she wasn't in the right frame of mind to have it with her earlier and Reddington assured her it would be safe there, that there would still be surveillance.

She grabs a knife out of the block as her heart rate speeds up.

The sound leads her to the back hallway, into the owner's suite. It's halfway down the length of the carpeting that she realizes her wine glass is still in her hand, so she puts it down carefully on the floor, and proceeds. Liz adjusts her grip on the knife and moves forward, scanning the darkened bedroom.

She doesn't anticipate the sight before her: Raymond Reddington is kneeling on a large throw pillow in front of a low-mounted in-wall safe. The dim light filtering through the window across the room casts strokes of silver highlights on small areas of him as he works at the dial.

There's no sense of urgency to his movements; that, combined with the fact that her approach - which she's certain he must have heard - has not caused him to react, has her flipping the hallway light on with her elbow.

Light spills into a neat square, and she now sees the man is wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt, his feet bare. It's difficult to place him as the man who strolled into FBI Headquarters and put himself in a similar position to be apprehended, and yet this isn't the strangest thing she's seen and part of her is wondering just how far down the rabbit hole she's fallen.

He exhales loudly, turning towards her with a nettled expression.

"Which one were you going to offer whoever was back here?" is his rhetorical question combined with a jut of his chin in the direction of her wine before turning back to his work. "Have a little faith in the security detail, Lizzie."

She doesn't respond. The knife is put to rest on a shelf just inside the doorway, and she doubles back to retrieve her glass. She leans against the doorframe and watches his progress for a time, too tired to try to make conversation.

There's a beer bottle by Red's knee, and he occasionally pauses to steal another sip from it. There's a quiet punctuated by sips and liquid on glass and breathing and Red humming under his breath - Cat Stevens, she recognizes, the one about singing out and being free.

"Took you for a classical music and jazz person," she tells him over the rim of her glass.

"Jazz, a little. Classical music is elevator, dentist crap...What made you think that?" he asks, leaning back to take another sip and then he raises an eyebrow. "The hat?"

"The hat," she affirms. "The clothes...that's all part of it, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer, instead turning back to the safe.

"What's in there?" Liz asks.

"Not a clue," he happily answers. "Owners left in a rush when they realized the IRS was on to them for tax evasion, so who knows what goodies got left behind for bored, insomniac crooks to find in the middle of the night."

He'd said it was his house earlier. Not to her, of course, but to Dembe's sister.

He doesn't lie to her, isn't that what he's always telling her?

Clothes and music and houses that aren't his own preference. Clothes and music and houses that all fit a character, the one written for him by the same people who now print his face and info on a Most Wanted poster.

"So you _don't_ own this place...you don't own any of them do you?"

"So many questions," he mutters, but makes no effort to answer her. He refocuses on the safe and seems to seriously try to open it now; he's trying to go by feel. He shifts and turns in just the right way, holding himself in position and she feels a tightness in her chest.

"My Dad taught me to do it that way," she says.

"Your Dad taught me to do it that way, too," he responds easily. "Which is exactly why I hire someone to do it if the job requires it, or I pop the sucker out whole and take it to go so I can twist the knob in private. Police response is too quick nowadays and this is timely."

"Daddy considered that cheating." She realizes the slip of her wine-loosened tongue after, but the man before her doesn't say anything.

"He was a crook with ethics. That's how he ended up in prison in the first place."

It's said so quickly, she can't imagine he thought it through, but it pricks her curiosity.

"Don't you dare drop it at that," Liz warns him, standing up straight. "The man never served time while I was with him; what happened?"

Giving up on the safe, at least for the time being, Reddington twists around to address her. "Sam took the fall for a job gone wrong, but some former accomplice who turned state evidence named him in a more serious case and brought him to the Fed's attention. When they realized I couldn't just play dress up and play house in expensive homes and give criminals faulty information to get them caught, that I'd have to start getting my hands dirty if I wanted to keep my cover, they told Sam his sentence would be reduced if he would teach me." He goes back to working on the safe as an obvious way of avoiding looking at her after he realizes just how much he's told her, finishing by saying, "He saved my ass more times than I could count."

"That why yo-"

She stops when she hears the click, and they both immediately look at the metal door on the safe. Reddington swings it open.

It's empty.

They both stare at the space inside the safe and he finally breaks the silence when he sighs.

She watches the drop of his shoulders before she hears his dry, humorless chuckle. "Well, that's life, isn't it?"

He's said he is still looking for his truth, and she knows he's referring to his daughter; this is more than just a safe to him.

He doesn't move for so long, just staring at the shadows before him, that it worries her.

"It's just a safe," she says, but gets no answer. She repeats herself with no success.

Concern increasing in her, Liz takes a small step forward and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Re-Raymond," she tries, while shaking his shoulder. He jolts, twisting around to look up at her. "It doesn't mean anything," she says firmly looking him in the eye. "It's just a safe. Come on."

Maybe it's the hour, or the wine - she likes to have them as excuses, instead of some sense of compassion for him, although the part that has been rallying against admitting to it is fading - she reaches her hand out to help him stand and doesn't immediately let go when they're at eye level.

Wordlessly, he follows her into the kitchen where she washes out her glass by hand and puts it back where it was originally resting on the drying rack. She feels and hears him walk behind her, empty glass being placed on the island counter, before he is passing through to the dining room and then the den.

His silence is unnerving. There's an anxious hum between them.

She could easily walk back upstairs, and they could both act like this hasn't happened. She could, but doesn't want to. Liz resists the urge to hide her hands in the sleeves of her sweater, settling for wrapping her arms around her middle as she steps closer to him.

He's sitting on the couch in the dark, a doll in his hands as he surveys the evidence of children before him.

She doesn't join him, instead choosing to perch on the armrest of the angled armchair to face him.

Today has been a break, a welcome one, from the chaos going on around them. She thought it was the same for him, but seeing that he's reliving memories of his daughter, that he chooses to do this every year, makes her chest hurt.

This time next year, the next time he does this, Nada will be 8. She'll be a whole two years older than Raymond Reddington's daughter ever was in his time with her.

"Why do you do this to yourself," she asks him quietly, "have them join you every year, if it hurts you so much?"

The man on the couch doesn't answer, but she hears the quick intake of breath, like she's quickly pulled off a Band-Aid. The dark makes it hard to see his face, and she wishes he wasn't sitting with his back to the windows, so she could see his expression.

"They're not my daughter," he says. It's hard to tell if he's reminding himself, or trying to assure her he knows it until he adds, "I know I'm not their father."

Liz bites her lip and tries to form her next words carefully. "A person can...sometimes you can try to fill a role, or ask somebody to fill one in different ways. Sometimes you just want to imagine what it would be like. Sometimes people aren't even aware of it."

She shouldn't say it, but she chooses to, feeling dumb or brave or maybe fed up. "It's what I tell myself when I get frustrated with your hot-and-cold routine with me."

He's very still. She can feel him watching her.

"This coming from a woman who asked me if I was her father," he says darkly.

He's never understood why she asked it, and she's only just understanding herself. She was trying to understand why a near stranger would be willing to risk his life for her. There are times when it seems he's not even sure how he views her and she's just been trying to seek some clarification, for both of them.

For a man who likes to act like he knows everything, she's not sure he even knows his own feelings.

If Liz stays downstairs, if she settles in for it, they could have a long, loud conversation about this, but she doesn't want to go there tonight.

She takes a controlled breath before she stands and responds, and she throws it over her shoulder as she exits because she's not brave enough, not right now, to stay to see what his reaction will be.

"Maybe I hoped you didn't think of _me_ that way."


	9. I Fight My Demons Every Day

**Don't own a thing. Chapter title from "Petrified to Be God-Like" by Susie Suh.**

**I am horribly behind responding to review - I'm sorry, I promise I'll be answering them in the next 24 hours!**

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><p><strong>November 2013<strong>

**S**he wakes up the next morning to find Dembe and Red both gone, and it isn't until she is slipping her coat on to go for a walk on the beach with Aiza, Nada and Shiza after their shared breakfast that she finds the note in her pocket.

_Business overseas. Back Tuesday. Take care. - R_

Careful penmanship with a good pen, high quality paper cut down to size; this isn't a quick afterthought on his way out the door, jotted down on the back of a receipt or scrap of paper. He thought about it before writing it. Thought about what he was going to write on it, after how she'd left things the night before.

And she stops herself from analyzing it further. Liz is more than aware of the direction of her thoughts and it does no good to entertain them. Not right now. She still finds herself expecting to see her wedding and engagement rings, like a phantom limb. Her life is a mess and she's trying to pick up the pieces.

It is Mr. Kaplan who drives her back to her hotel the next morning after she says her goodbyes to Dembe's family, promising Aiza she'll see them soon more out of courtesy on both their parts than an actual promise.

It's a silent ride until they reach their destination and Kaplan pulls over to the curb.

"Give me your phone."

She knows better than to ask 'why'. Liz reaches into her pocket and grabs her current burner to hand over.

Kaplan doesn't look at Liz, but programs a number into the device. "When you switch to your new one, transfer the number. If you call, ask for me, just like before."

Kaplan doesn't immediately let go of the cell when the FBI agent starts to take it back. Liz looks over at the driver, unable to move under the stern, analytical gaze.

It feels a bit like being a bug under a microscope.

"He was off this morning. Shaken."

There's a clear note of accusation in Kaplan's tone, and Liz attempts to force the transition on her face to a feigned look of bland, innocent confusion, but it's not enough and only seems to confirm something for the car's other occupant, who nods and gives a dark little scratchy chuckle before letting go of the mobile phone.

"You picked your place at the table, dearie. Remember that."

She almost dials the Weiss hotel more than once in the days that follow, just to ask what Mr. Kaplan saw in Raymond Reddington's face before he left that morning.

The weekend passes slowly as she spends some time shopping for new clothes that have never been touched by or shared closet space with items belonging to the man who called himself Tom Keen, all the while doing battle with the last waves of Black Friday shoppers there for the weekend, and she grabs Mexican from a restaurant across the street, eating - actually eating - and looking over the notes, but not with the same manic tunnel vision of before.

Liz is still half certain the Gardner heist has something to do with him - even in her half-crazed state she knows she saw a flicker of familiarity in his expression when he saw the printed-out photo on her timeline. He's given her a few more crumbs and she might be able to find a trail if she connects the dots.

Separate the man from the mystery, that's what she needs to do.

It takes two full work days to feel like she's back in the swing of things at work. Two days of mostly monotonous, backlogged reports and belated emails of inter-department cooperation on previous takedowns while making small talk with her coworkers about their Thanksgivings, responding in kind with descriptions of a 'quiet, uneventful' day by the beach while away on her vacation. There's a quiet, post-holiday, first-few-days-back lethargy to the Post Office; no one is in any real rush to be productive, and there isn't a new name to doggedly pursue.

Ressler spent the time with Audrey, and in a show of misplaced workplace compassion for his office partner, he's been quiet about the time. She's assured him more than once she's _fine_, but he hasn't listened and she finds herself intentionally bringing up the holiday and how it went to get him to understand she really is fine.

It's going to take a lot more time getting accustomed to being 'Agent Elizabeth Scott' - Cooper had called her into his office on Monday to hand her a plain, manila letter-sized envelope, which contained not only her divorce decree, but also all of the legal paperwork she needed for her name change. There was an almost paternal, understanding and concerned look on her boss' face during the exchange.

She was given a vague and strangely unnerving explanation: those higher up wanted as much distance between her and Tom Keen as possible as the investigation into his real identity continued, and while she is happy for the expedited progress of the disassociation, it's a little eerie to see how quickly 'they' can make it happen.

She spends Monday and Tuesday throwing herself into her work, as always, forever trying to prove she's more than capable of the work, just as qualified as the others to be there. It's good to keep busy, to keep herself distracted.

Liz hasn't heard from Red since Thanksgiving night. The note is still in her coat pocket, and she's taken it out more than once to study it. It's Tuesday and she hasn't heard a word from him all day.

When she catches her fingers starting to reach for the note, she redirects them to the solid, unwavering weight of her badge in her pocket.

They haven't gotten any answers out of Tom, wherever it is they're keeping him. More deaths attributed to him, but only in the last few months, nothing earlier. She's overheard an agent in the break room mention that forensics had been able to link Tom to two more unsolved murders in the DC area.

And what's chilling is that she knows this could all be twisted around to be blamed on her. If Tom's good, which it seems he might be, he could still turn it around.

Reddington was mostly linked with information leaks prior to '90, so his wife's crimes weren't ascribed to him, from what she knows, but if the woman was sent to Kuwait to kill Cooper, she has to think that was Ellen Reddington's line of work, similar to Tom's.

So what changed? What took place to suddenly make Tom risk his cover, or take up the extra work? Was it her continued work at the Post Office, despite his attempts to pull her away?

It's another mystery she can't solve, with someone else holding the answers in their hands, silent.

She called Aram over the weekend from the burner phone over the weekend and told him that yes, she'd looked at what was on the drive, and she thanked him for his help but that she really didn't think he should try to look any further into what he'd found. Everything was stored in her old locker for the time being, insurance for some point in the future she couldn't quite see but felt could come.

Aram is a _good_ person; he is a rarity in an organization and a city meant to be focused on bettering their country, those who only do so if it meant publicity, power, or some other benefit for them first. She wants to preserve that, and keeping him out of anything else that is going to take place is the only way she can think of doing that.

She catches him as they're all getting ready to leave for the day, on time since there is no current target to hunt down, and asks if he's in the mood for junk food.

It's not long before they're sitting in the back of the burger place under the harsh artificial lights with plastic trays of food before them. Blocking them from the front windows is a constant stream of tourists and out-of-towners ordering food at the counter and eating at the tables closer to the bathrooms and condiments.

"Is there _anything_ I can do?" he asks, almost dejectedly, as they pick through their fries. It's non sequitur enough for public conversation, she judges.

"You've done a lot already," she assures him and then continues quietly, "You were right about what you saw. Anything else from here out would be risky."

He's got a lot to lose if they ever caught him passing classified intel to non-government servers. She might not work in tech, but she knows enough to be aware of how big a transgression that would be. This could blow up. Snowball. Intentionally get leaked...the public's concept of 'profiling' is very different from her professional one and could be very, very damaging for someone like Aram.

He nods, a touch sullen since it's obvious that the clandestine part of their conversation is finished, and prods the pulled pickles sitting on his burger wrapper with a fry.

"Hey," she says, feeling awkward. "What did you do for Thanksgiving?"

"Skyped with my family and grabbed Boston Market," he answers. "The usual, since I moved here...While we're on the subject: What are your plans for Christmas? Captain America is spending it with his girlfriend, Meera's ex has her daughter and I can tell she's already been kind of down about it, so I proposed a totally non-romantic, coworker movie date and you're more than welcome to come - might make it less weird, actually. You don't even have to make an effort jumping between theaters on Christmas, they just let you mosey from one to the next as long as you buy popcorn or a snack or something."

Liz smiles, still chewing a fry, and when she swallows she says "I'd like that," because she _likes_ spending time with Aram, and Meera, too. It's actually nice to already have the next big holiday squared away, plans-wise. There's no pressure to go to any parties this year, or follow any traditions. Her Dad is gone, her family is back in Nebraska and they're more than understanding of the new life she has on the East Coast, and it's not like she has a husband to include in her plans. Maybe spending the day with soda and popcorn and two friends is the way to do it.

For a moment, she wonders how Reddington typically spends his Christmas, since last year he was in the wind. Is it the same as Thanksgiving, or does he ignore it, since it's a horrific anniversary for him?

They finish and part on cheerful terms, but Liz can tell her tech-genius coworker is more than slightly disappointed that he isn't walking away with any top-secret orders, aside from getting rid of the burner phone properly.

She's not ready to go back to the silence of her room just yet, so she goes to the mall and wanders for a bit. It's officially Christmas now, since there are lights and displays and music overhead, out in full force. Back in New York, the season's probably already well underway. She wonders how aggressive the advertisers have gotten, how loud the Radio City Rockette commercials are.

Honestly, she's looking for an excuse not to return to the hotel room she's calling home for the next few days while she apartment shops. What is considered neither evidence nor necessary for her day-to-day activities from the house on Twelfth Street is sitting in a nondescript storage facility in Annandale; since her most treasured possessions are sitting in a very different sort of storage facility, Liz isn't sure when she'll ever get around to retrieving her items from the new storage spot.

It feels like she's leaving pieces of herself all over the place, more than the hair and dead skin cells and exhaled air in her hotel rooms. Shedding in more ways than one.

She needs to start over fresh.

She needs to refocus on her work.

She needs to stop worrying over Raymond Reddington's reaction to her words the other night.

To make use of her time, she purchases presents for her family back home in Nebraska that will be sent early with cards and arrive on time for the holidays, for once. The tags will only say her name on them. There's a sense of accomplishment in the set of her shoulders.

It's something to focus on, instead of the fact that she keeps waiting for Raymond Reddington to appear around every corner, unannounced and always making a dramatic entrance.

The hotel room is empty and untouched when she returns. She wraps everything she's bought, just to be done with it, and sets them to the side until it's time to pack up and move to her apartment.

She should go downstairs to the gym, but can't seem to find the motivation to put on the clothes for that. Instead, she settles on her bed with her laptop and a notepad and continues browsing apartments in the area and her price range.

When her work cell rings, she's happy for the distraction.

"This is Agent Scott," she answers, trying to sound a little more alert than she was feeling a moment ago.

"Red's here with the next name on the list," Cooper tells her with no preamble. "He's already sent his bodyguard to pick you up."

The call is ended and she fishes the clothing she just took off out of the laundry bag and determines that the pants are fine to wear again, but will need a different shirt that isn't as wrinkled. It's late, or almost, early, but she knows Meera will come in looking flawless and Ressler won't have a single gelled hair out of place. She settles on one of the thick sweaters she took with her to the beach, hoping the its soft warmth will help counteract the cold, tired feeling she'll get in the next few hours during the inevitable all-nighter ahead of her.

She's riding the elevator downstairs when she realizes what seems off - wouldn't Reddington normally give her the info, make her make the call to Cooper as they ride in together?

Dembe's waiting just out front of the lobby in a sleek, expensive car, and she greets him, genuinely happy to see him. She asks him how his sister and nieces are, and when she is able to ask after all three of them by name, it's impossible to miss the bright spark of pleasure in Dembes eyes, and if she had a better angle, she imagines his smile matches.

"They're all still feeling stuffed from that meal, as am I. And you?"

"Same," she tells him, feeling herself relax in the man's presence.

"Raymond enjoys good company and good food, and if he considers you part of the former, you enjoy the latter often. I believe we'll be sharing more meals in the future, Miss Scott."

It's a small bit of reassurance, after the internal battle she's had over the last few days. "You can call me 'Liz', Dembe. Please," she tells him.

They park in the garage just as Ressler is pulling in, and they wait to ride the elevator with him. There's a small flicker of curiosity in her coworker's eye as he greets them, but it isn't until they're in the lift that he leans over.

"Didn't Red tell you ahead of time?" Ressler asks, voice low, and Liz feels her hackles rise twofold; Reddington almost always gives her the next name and intel and it's enough of a habit that others notice.

"No," she whispers back, trying to ensure her voice sounds appropriately curious, emotionally detached.

"Might be your lucky day then, Scott," he says, patting her on the shoulder. "Maybe he's switching up victims."

Dembe's presence says otherwise, but she lets it go as they arrive on their floor and step forth into the typical buzz and excitement that quickly kicks into gear when there's a new name announced.

The newest target is named Nicky Owen, alias Blackbird, a man the FBI has no intel on though Reddington assures them he's someone they want to pursue. He's been dabbling in the sex trade business for a while, catering to the rich and famous with discretion. The first big, exclusive, Christmas party of the season is being held by a well-known athlete, one of Owen's clients, at the end of the week in Manhattan.

It's the perfect opportunity to shut the creep's operation down.

Most of their team is dismissed to get ready, although Meera, Ressler, and Liz are asked to stay behind.

"What's our in?" Meera asks Cooper, arms across her chest while she surveys the info on the screens again.

"That would be me, Agent Malik," declares Reddington as he makes his theatrical entrance; if he is aware of Elizabeth's eyes on him, he makes no sign of it. He looks relatively unscathed, dressed as always in a high-quality suit.

"I'm on the invite list, and I am also working on ensuring two spots in the catering staff at the event."

"Orthopedic shoes and the vest or heels and the skimpy dress?" Meera asks, without removing her eyes from the files she's currently going over. They know how this goes when Reddington is involved by now - Liz in the spotlight beside him and her teammates in the shadows at the edge of the stage, ready to strike.

"I believe your uniform will require 'comfortable flats' in 'tasteful black' to match your vest, if I recall your contract details correctly."

"Good," she replies.

Liz gives Meera a conspiratory grin. "Guess we'll be getting that pizza sooner rather than later."

"This won't compromise your relationship with us, will it?" Ressler asks Red. "No chance you'll be the obvious snitch?"

"Not in the slightest," is his breezy response. "I've provided this athlete his party supplies of the pill variety in the past. I'm not sure when his tastes took a turn for the abhorrent, but I imagine this situation could make him a little useful before he serves his jail time…which actually works out for me, since I had money on his team losing to mine."

Always an angle. The man always finds a way to profit.

"All sorts of unsavory individuals will be inside the party, as all communication devices and cameras are going to be confiscated at the door and everyone is going to let their true, raunchy colors show."

Reddington waves his hand carelessly. "Make up a reason or a tip off or something for your raid of the party to bring him in. He's going to have contact information for Owen on his phone - which he keeps close to him when he's not on the field or training, and highly secured when he is - and that should be able to lead you to Blackbird."

For the first time since that late evening, Liz finds herself the subject of the man's gaze, and she sees a spark of amusement in his eyes that matches the slight note in his tone when he speaks.

"Luckily, my plus one has some estimable skill in the stealthy retrieval of the personal belonging of others."

Alright, at least in public he is going to carry on as before.

Cooper dismisses them to start prep on their assignments.

Except he tells Liz to remain behind.

"Agent Scott, Reddington will be going over your role in this separately."

The FBI agent collects her things and rejoins Dembe and Reddington, who escort her out of the Post Office and into the luxury vehicle with tinted windows.

Dembe shuts her door as the other man slides in beside her on the other side, and when his door shuts, there's a pressing silence.

"Back to Scott?" he asks, watching her. She wills herself to hold his gaze and dip her head affirmatively.

Dembe opens the driver's door and Reddington faces forward. "Suits you better, in my opinion."

Wherever they're going, the bodyguard has already been informed, because there are no instructions before they take off. "Did your trip go well?" she asks, attempting to sound conversational, casual.

"It proved more informative than I anticipated," he responds, and while the answer is more than slightly cagey, it's an answer. "I hope you don't mind that I got you out of work early; a seamstress friend of mine is back in town and only has availability this morning if she's going to have the work finished in time."

He wants her to accompany him for a new suit? "At 2 in the morning? What happened to your tailor?"

"Bout of flu a few weeks ago, but aside from that he's fine - I'll pass on your regards. Haseena, on the other hand, makes _divine_ evening gowns and assures me she'll have all the alterations to your gown finished for you by the end of business tomorrow...rather, today. Real firecracker, I think you'll like her. Took over her husband's textile business when it became clear he was an incompetent buffoon and she's a real cutthroat in business deals. I never pass up a chance to stop by for Atai."

She opens her mouth - to protest or to ask a question, she's not sure, actually - but closes it.

A short time later, they arrive at a white brick row home with black wrought iron work on the windows and railings. Despite the inky black of the sky outside, inside the home it's as busy as if it was midday. Liz is whisked into an upstairs sitting room cluttered with fabric bolts and sewing paraphernalia, but there are several gowns hanging on a rack, prepped for presentation.

Liz doesn't know much about fashion, but she can tell before she entirely clears the door that they're breathtakingly gorgeous and jawdroppingly expensive. When she gets close enough to see the details of the lacework, she notices the small label on the neck and remembers hearing an actress rattle off the same name during a red carpet interview.

Haseena is a spirited, older woman, who makes quick work of taking her measurements, helping Liz - with no input from Reddington who makes no appearance -select one of the evening gowns, and making sweet, minty tea that they enjoy with Dembe and Red in a parlor downstairs, where the pair of men have been waiting. The entire situation seems quiet, relaxed even, and the young woman feels like she's been worrying over nothing; this feels just like the beach house.

Haseena promises the dress will be ready for pick up later in the day, and she pulls Liz into a fast hug before they leave.

The sun is fully up as they step out onto the street, and Liz stands still for a moment to blink and adjust to the brightness.

"It's dark in the car," Reddington points out beside her while wearing his usual tinted shades, and she makes it to the vehicle first ahead of either man, all but diving in.

"Not all of us slept on a private jet a few hours ago," she points out, although neither man responds.

Before long, they're pulling up at the curb of her hotel, just before the portico where the valet would rush to attempt to take the keys from Dembe, and she knows this will be a fast exit from the vehicle for her. She'll have a few hours to take a quick nap and pack for the trip before turning back around and heading to the Post Office, so she turns to Reddington.

"Those dresses - multiple, because I saw Haseena designs her own, so it's not like she'd have some other designer's dresses lying around - were...incredible, and I appreciate the opportunity, but you didn't have to do that."

"Consider it part of your job, Lizzie, just another expense footed by those who appreciate the work you do for them. Paper, pens, guns, couture gowns - your's is a unique occupation."

Job. Business. For a second she feels her sense of starting to understand what's between them falter, and her face must as well because Reddington asks his friend and bodyguard to give them a moment, and Dembe steps out of the car and shuts the door.

Liz turns to him, now guarded and curious, and knows the second she sees the press of his lips following the tail end of the working of his jaw, he's looking to have a serious conversation and he's choosing his words carefully.

His voice is quiet when he starts to speak, low and somber and she finds herself instinctively leaning in. "I don't want you to think I didn't hear what you said the other night."

"I didn't mean..." her words die on her tongue when she realizes she is about to lie, and they both know it. She sighs and he continues talking.

"I don't see you as a daughter. I never have...although I have asked myself if I should. If that would be better."

He shifts in his seat, turning towards her, leaning in close. He pulls off his sunglasses and for what seems like an eternity in the beats of her heart, they simply look at one another.

Her badge is heavy in her pocket.

She exhales, and it's a little shaky from being held longer than she realized before starting to let it out. "I...I think we both have a lot to do," she says. "To get ready."

He nods, slowly. "I'll see you Friday, Lizzie. I'll be dealing with Cooper in the meantime." In an instant, the heavy tension is broken as he sits back, eyebrows rising as his voice does. "He gets squirmy when I'm around, what with saving his life and all. He needs to be reminded of Kuwait from time to time. Keeps him behaving."

It's a small parting gift, that little kernel of information, and Liz flashes him a small, appreciative smile before stepping out of the car.

What's left of Wednesday is a blur, but she picks up her dress in a scant few hours, remembering the location of the house well enough to return and try the dress on a second time to ensure fit.

Haseena has worked magic and it fits like a glove, all of the panels of shimmery, silky fabric and the small sections of beaded over sheer spots, all in deep, rich burgundy, hugging her in a way that makes her rethink the appeal of that red dress she'd worn to the Embassy.

When she meets back up with everyone, it's clear they've all had a little rest and are ready to pack and head north. Aram, she finds out, already rolled out earlier in the day, in the first wave, and will be the person she hands the phone off to after she lifts it.

"The whole team then," Meera says approvingly as she gets into a small sedan with Liz for the drive.

The fleet of vehicles disbands as they leave the parking garage, each taking a different route to get to the office building in New York where they'll be working from. It's a few blocks away from the location of the party, with two of the upper floors unleased for some time. The team has moved into the top floor, allowing the level below to act as a buffer.

Two stories below them, office workers are thinking up plans to get out of work a day early; the FBI's special team are finalizing their own plans to get in and out quick.

They rehearse verbally once they're all assembled: Liz will get the phone and hand it off to Meera or Ressler, whoever she can reach, and they'll run it out to Aram under the guise of a cigarette break. Owens' contact info will be on the phone as well as a slew of other incriminating evidence. The armed team will strike. They'll walk away with the Blackbird, info on his network, and at least a handful of his clients at one go.

Friday dawns, bright and early, and everyone starts finalizing their parts of the job - for Liz, this doesn't mean much until it's time to get dressed. She commandeers a corner office with a well-appointed private bathroom to change and fix her hair and makeup.

It's petty, she thinks as she winds a strand of hair around the curler, and while she knows she's only getting dressed up like this at Reddington's behest, it still feels like there's a huge divide between her and the rest of the team.

Just like the Embassy, there will be no wires, no cameras. She'll have Raymond Reddington beside her, and two team members wandering the room serving the high class equivalent of cocktail franks.

For an instant, she panics when she sees her reflection in the mirror. What the hell was she thinking, choosing a gown with such a high slit up the side, and such a low vee in the front?

She reminds herself she picked this one because she needs to blend in by trying to stand out; she needs to look like all the other women on the arms of their older, wealthier dates this evening. Women who suspect that their dates' eyes wander and will do anything to keep them captivated.

How will her own 'date' react?

When she exits the bathroom, she shakes off another flare up of self-conscious anxiety and sets her shoulders before walking back to the command room, where Cooper is waiting with Reddington, who wears a crisp tux and as always, look impeccable.

Her entrance into the room has both of them looking at her and yes, she can now confirm that despite the fact she's recently divorced and spent the better of the last few days eating totally unhealthy junk, she cleans up pretty damn well.

She was planning on saying something, having the first word when she entered; the upper hand would help her confidence, she reasoned.

She doesn't need it because it doesn't seem like Reddington will say anything, not with his lips parting like that, like he had to inhale sharply, against his will.

"Agent Scott, you look like you're ready to go," Cooper says, with the pleasant, calm demeanor of a man who has been involved in more than his fair share of tactical maneuvers. He compliments her dress before reviewing her emergency exit strategies.

The man beside him says nothing; Liz can feel his gaze like a physical weight on her as she forces herself to pay attention to her boss, who finishes by saying "Good luck to both of you, and I hope to see you soon enough."

The other man seems to resort to his usual defense.

"I forgot the corsage, Dad, but I promise you, Lizzie's in good hands at the prom," replies Reddington as he offers Lizzie his arm, his eyes never leaving hers. "We'll both be out before curfew."

Taking his offered arm brings her in close contact with him, and yes, suddenly she feels as nervous as she did on her first date as a teenager.

She forces them to walk a little quicker than necessary to the elevator.

"Cameras," she warns him quietly when the doors slide shut and she hears him start to take a breath to speak.

The elevator ride down is quiet. They're confronted by their reflections in the elevator doors, and Liz has to admit it - they look _good_. Mismatched in more ways than not, but…

"Sharp, very sharp," the man beside her murmurs, approvingly, and Liz looks to the side, trying to hide the small smile that threatens to grow. Spencer, from the stakeout, is the one watching the camera feeds, and he doesn't need to see how well the pair in the elevator gets along.

Her heels click loudly as they cross the narrow marble lobby towards the glass and metal doors that release them onto the streets of Manhattan.


	10. You Watch Me Steady

**A/N: Don't own anything and will still keep shipping these two. Title from Ben Howard's "Soldiers." ****The rest of the notes are at the bottom of this chapter.**

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><p><strong>December 2013<strong>

**A** windy, chilly evening is starting to settle onto the city and Liz realizes it really wasn't that long ago she called this city home, and the building buzz of another evening in New York washes over her skin comfortably. The dress swirls around her legs as they walk towards Dembe and the town car.

Reddington opens the door for Liz while Dembe slips into the driver's seat, and while her date is walking around to the other side of the car, Dembe twists around to address the well-dressed woman in the back seat.

"You chose well, Elizabeth."

"Thanks, Dembe," she replies with a smile as Reddington ducks into the car, his body heat and the smell of his cologne announcing his presence beside her, closer than necessary.

"Please forgive the heavy handedness with the dress selection, Lizzie, but I knew I was never going to see you in Zuhair Murad otherwise," he says as he settles into the seat. Liz rests her back against the plush leather, refusing to shy away from him.

His heavy-lidded gaze as he takes in the sight of her in beside him should seem lecherous, but to Lizzie, it's anything but.

"And my _god_," he says, with a sort of delighted little breathless laugh on the last word that Liz believes she could easily and happily get accustomed to, "was that dress made for you. If I didn't know you and what you're capable of, I'd have to worry about you tonight."

She tries to suppress a grin as she asks him "Haven't you heard the phrase 'flattery will get you nowhere'?"

His answer is flip. "Yes, although I found it doesn't apply to crime, government, or politics and I'm involved in all three."

When a quick shift on the seat causes the dark red skirt to slide and offer up a view of her thigh, which seems to encompass the man's attention, a slow smile spreads on his lips, and Liz feels her stomach flip.

"And I think I'm _exactly_ where I want to be right now, anyway."

He speaks the words so quietly she can't imagine Dembe can hear him. She can't remember the last time she felt like this, wanted and wanting, an ache in her chest and her stomach in knots. A tiny voice in her head wants to tell Dembe to stop the car, to just...hold everything for a moment, just for a little while, to take what's between them into her hands and discover what it really is, or might be...

But she's got a job to do, and so does he. As much as she regrets having to, Liz sits a little straighter and since the man beside her can read her so well, he does too.

"...At least, until I get to see you lift that phone off of our host tonight while I've got him laughing over some story I tell in small words with a simple-minded punchline."

She's staring at him, the quiet, passive, observant expression settling on her face as it always does when she's analyzing someone and mentally trying to remove herself from a situation, and in this case, it's to consider what she's currently feeling. He is _looking forward_ to this, to watching her tonight. It's a new feeling, having someone know about her talent and not react negatively, or surprised.

"What is it, Lizzie?"

Of course he notices.

"My family, my Dad, they knew what I could do, _taught_ me these things...even they never seemed happy about it. They were reluctant to teach me, but I wanted to, I...I knew I'd be good at it."

There's a pause before he answers, and a tiny facial tick - mentioning Sam seems to trigger them, she's noticed - and she knows she's given him another little piece of her past he didn't know.

"I'm in no position to judge, and you know that. This skill of yours, it's a part of who you are, but it doesn't define you. Just like your badge."

His hand slides across the seat between them, brushing along her wrist with a slight hesitancy, giving her a moment to withdraw or protest which she doesn't take, before turning over her forearm and running his fingers over the pale, smooth skin of her scar.

His voice is another caress. "Just like this."

Watching his fingers spread wide to follow the gradually separating trails of scar tissue reminds her of a question that's been bothering her since the previous weekend while she was reviewing the reports regarding the events of Christmas in 1990, of the empty safe they found hidden under the floorboards.

It's another thing that connects them.

She swallows, because her throat has come to be rather dry, before asking "Did Sam tell you about the fire?"

Of course he knows which one she's talking about. "He told me there had been some trouble, but assured me it was taken care of and you both were safe. Sam told me my help wasn't needed; he'd already contacted someone for paperwork, new identities for Nebraska."

Well, that was a version of the truth. Correcting him would be a segue they don't have time for.

"The man who came to our house that night, he had a box, this metal briefcase. It had that mark on it, the same mark on the box I found in my house."

He's pensive as he considers this information, all that it implies. "You never told me you made the connection."

Instinctively, she seeks to cover the scar, cradle her wrist against her chest, and Reddington's fingers slide off her skin as she moves. "Until these last few weeks, that night was the worst I ever remembered. I can't even tell you how many times I had nightmares…" when the words stick in her throat, she shakes her head. "Seeing that mark on something in my house, my home? It terrified me and I didn't trust anyone enough to say anything."

He's deadly calm when he speaks. "The man in your house, the night of the fire, he did that to you?"

She shakes her head. She's not ready to tell him the whole story, not ready to relive it all right now. "I did it to myself, by accident. Sam said it could be a good thing though, said having that mark might keep others away, make them think I was part of something else. He said 'Sometimes blending in is a good thing, Butterball' - I never forgot that."

She's getting off topic, and she has precious time before they get to the party and it will be hours before she has a chance to talk to him alone again. Liz steadies herself with a deep breath before asking her next question. "I need you to tell me this. I need the truth. Was your wife tied to this, whatever this group is?"

Even though her hand is turned over, the man beside her doesn't move his eyes from her arm. It makes it easier to watch him as he answers her.

"Yes."

The silence presses on them both. Dembe has been driving around to ensure they arrive slightly late, and she's thankful for it. She knows if she gives Reddington this quiet, he'll continue. He'll tell her what she needs to hear.

"You're right, Lizzie, they are connected. I found files in Ellen's hotel room in Kuwait bearing that same design." His jaw is tight as he says, uncomfortably, "Who they are, what their endgame is, I'm not sure. From what I have been able to gather, these are more than your standard guns for hire."

"So Ellen was-"

His gaze flickers up to catch hers at the mention of his wife.

"Hired to insert herself into my life, yes. Just like Tom was in your's. Why they chose me back then, I'm not entirely sure, but I have to think it had something to do with pedigree and fairly predictable outcomes; I'd have to have been a complete idiot not to rise through the ranks. The Gatz Project aside, I was privy to highly sensitive information and high ranking officials my entire life.

"As for you, I can only imagine two reasons for them to be interested in you."

Liz follows his line of logic, because she's been thinking it over as well. "You, or Compton."

"Exactly."

While it's validating to know they have matching theories, it still doesn't answer many questions. "So why would Tom suddenly take a job to kill the Brigadier and blow his cover?"

"A question I've been asking myse-"

"-Raymond, Elizabeth, we're here," Dembe informs them, and she can hear a note of apology in his voice. Once he gets out of the vehicle, he takes his time crossing to their side to open the door, giving them a few more seconds alone.

"We really have to work on our timing, sweetheart," Reddington tells her before his voice rises slightly in pitch, settling into that familiar, feigned pleasantry. "Ready to dazzle them?"

She takes his hand as she slides out of the vehicle and looks around when she's only greeted by typical street noise. There's no line of guests, no paparazzi, no red carpet. A security officer is waiting, and she guides them quickly into the gilded foyer of green marble and gold, and immediately through a semi-concealed service door. They're ushered into a small room, the dimly lit space populated by aggressively large men clad in black, rented CCTV equipment, folding chairs and tables, and pizza boxes. The edge of what is very clearly a gang tattoo peeks out below the armband of the black polo doing little to restrain the muscles on one of the guards.

Not many people can say their Manhattan penthouse sits above a ballroom, but their host can. After they're asked by the burly security guard to hand over any digital devices they have and only Liz's dummy cell phone is relinquished, the guard gestures for Reddington to step forward so they can pass the handheld metal detector over him. As her date allows them to scan him and then pat him down, seemingly unperturbed by the treatment, he points out a brick in the wall above the window. '1897' is carved into it.

"This was part of the lobby at one point before renovation," he tells her. "_Fascinating_ time in the city's history. This hotel was one of the first in the city to feature pneumatic tube mail. Tell me, dear, do you know that there isn't a single complete map of the city's underground infrastructure in existence? Sewers and aqueducts and pneumatic tubes...no one's ever compiled it, and some of it's been lost over time. A real mystery. Amazing, isn't it?"

One of the guards looks over at Liz to see her reaction to his history lesson, and she tries to school her features into something resemble blasé but polite interest. Truth be told she has no idea why he chooses any of the opportunities he does to lecture on the topics he knows, but she imagines it's a form of distraction and reassertion of control for himself.

They pass the wand over her next, but make no attempt to pat her down.

She lets out a humorless snort of a laugh as she takes Reddington's arm and they are led down a back hallway to a staff elevator flanked by guards. That's the problem with a lot of these men; they overlook women. She could very easily be carrying a carbon knife or some sort of plastic syringe somewhere on her person.

There is another couple waiting for the elevator as well, dressed similarly, and Reddington introduces himself only as 'Raymond' and his lovely date 'Beth' before they enter the lift. The doors open onto the ballroom's balcony, a wide and deep expanse overlooking the dance floor.

Liz has seen pictures of this ballroom - it has been the backdrop of more than one photo of a celeb on Page Six, and she half-remembers watching a documentary on the building and its upkeep one night when she couldn't sleep, years ago.

Gilded, three-story vaulted ceilings reflect back the brilliant light of the sparkling chandeliers, all resting atop white pillars inlaid with gold detailing and off-white marble pieces. Everything shines and sparkles. Satiny fabric flows down the pillars to the floor, with yellow-gold uplighting.

"Pretty nice for the preshow, don't you think?" the man at her side asks. "Only a handful of the people in this place are aware of what actually happens after."

The next hour and a half is spent shaking hands and being introduced to other guests. Liz does her best to keep a safe distance between them, to appear interested without too much interest in her date, since she's already seen Meera and Ressler more than once during their social rounds. It used to be easy to act like the plus one with an ambiguous connection to her date at the few other functions they have been to together, but she finds herself drifting towards him, feels him sway slightly towards her. More than once, she feels his arm slipping from her light grip to rest at her back. One time, she even falters mid-sentence when his thumb strokes the exposed skin of her back.

Over a glass of champagne, Liz quietly asks him to introduce her to their host. It's become obvious that Reddington is stalling, for reasons she hasn't figured out yet.

"I take you for a spin on the floor and he'll come over to introduce himself," he counters, challenges.

She stares him down as they both take long sips.

He swallows, a sort of reluctant half-smile flitting across his lips, but there's a glint of praise in his eyes. "Fine. I'd like to have a dance with you before we get down to business...if you're so inclined."

She makes him wait a moment before she answers with a smile. "I think I am."

They place their glasses on a ledge and he leads her down the steps to the dance floor. There's a guard at the bottom of the stairs, barring most from ascending them.

The band, arranged on a small stage at the front of the room, has been playing mostly what Liz would refer to as 'big band' music, although she can't properly identify the songs. The song that's playing as they start to dance has an easy enough rhythm for them to find, and she only tries to navigate for a few measures before he asks her which one of them is leading this time. She laughs and allows him to, knowing he won't lead them wrong.

"We've officially made it past the three minute mark," he informs her, "and you haven't hit anyone yet. I'd say we're getting better at this."

She allows herself to laugh at his light teasing, because she wants to and if Ressler and Meera see her, she's just playing her role for the night, correct? She's wrapped in layer upon layer of duplicity, more than usual, but tonight it does not feel so weighty.

A close-lipped smile spreads on her dance partner's face, and if she is ever asked to describe him in this moment - and her as well - it would be 'content'. She _enjoys_ this, as dangerous as the situation is, as morally gray as her actions will have to be, she knows that she thrives. Raymond Reddington does not make her feel ashamed of this. The fact that he's encouraging illegal activity is not lost on her, but the praise for who she is and what she can do is novel, after years of hiding and years of being made to feel guilty for her decisions by her husband.

The song draws to a close too soon for her liking.

"Show time," Reddington murmurs before offering her arm and acknowledging a mountain of a man who is raising his glass while nodding in their direction from the balcony above.

"Sweetheart," Liz's date says loudly as he leads them back to the stairs, "let me introduce you to the man who made tonight possible."

Two drinks later and the thief-turned-agent feels three quick taps of Reddington's thumb between her shoulder blades when his hand slides upward while he leans in, beginning to tell a raunchy anecdote involving a monastery, an entire brothel, and a pizza delivery; his words are lazy, slightly slurred and loud, and the hand on her back comes around her shoulders, as if needing the support. When he gets to the punchline, he laughs and leans heavily into her.

It's easy to pretend to teeter sideways, grabbing onto the burly athlete beside her as her own glass of champagne slips out of her grasp and onto his trousers. It's enough of a distraction and a commotion for Liz to slip the coveted cellphone out of his pocket and into her clutch.

"I am so _sorry_ about that!" she effuses, eyes wide. I think he's had a bit too much...Raymond," she plucks at the man's shoulder. "Raymond, why don't we get you outside for a little fresh air? Please, just bill him for the dry cleaning," she says finally, addressing their host who is promising them it's nothing, that he's fine.

They brush by Ressler once they pass through the French doors onto the outdoor balcony, and she drops the clutch into an empty ice bucket he has low at his side while the man with his arm around her waist continues to laugh - giggle really - and apologize to anyone they pass.

She hushes him, louder than necessary, and drags him to a quiet corner of the balcony.

"Won't he check for the phone?" she hisses at him, nerves prickling now that the act is finished.

"Definitely," he assures her, cheerfully, dropping the act. "That's why I took the opportunity to employ someone to drop a dummy on the floor during the chaos- no, don't bother wasting time asking who, it doesn't matter. Actors looking for good cash while they're waiters are a dime a dozen in a New York. Sad to say our All Star friend will find it's going to need to be plunked into some rice if he ever wants it to power up again since my drink poured all over it."

She allows herself to relax slightly, and lean gingerly with her back against the cement railing. "Then we're good."

"We're not entirely in the clear yet, are we? I mean, do you really think Donnie knows what to _do_ on a smoke break? He's probably sweating bullets just having a pack of cigarettes on his person, let alone having to lie about needing one."

"You could be nice to him from time to time," she replies, helpfully. "Might make him want to shoot you less."

"I'm nice to you and you constantly threaten bodily harm."

"Not out loud."

He puts both of his palms on the wide railing and looks out over the hotel's view of the South Street Seaport. The December night is made even colder by the light sea breeze, but neither seems that uncomfortable because of it.

"You also never wasted years trying to hunt me down," he points out. "If it came to that, I'm confident you'd make short work of it and I wouldn't have a reason to taunt you."

She leans back a little more, and watches him watch the sea for a few minutes. He's deep in thought, and so is she to be honest, but they're both shaken out of their quietude by the horn on one of the hourly sightseeing boat tours approaching the docks.

"I could go for another spin on the dance floor, if you're up to it," she suggests lightly, and he turns his head to look at her with a warm smile; she thinks there is something a little distant about it, a little rehearsed, but it might be a trick of light.

Their host passes them at one point and assures them he understands it was all an accident. They make their way back indoors and to the floor with no issue and Liz finds she doesn't allow for as large a space between them this time.

She still can't shake the feeling that she's missing something, and their dance is not as enjoyable as she'd like it to be since she's preoccupied with looking around them, finding that Ressler is still out of the room, and Meera has given her no signal of progress of any kind.

The eerie sense of foreboding won't leave her - she wishes, sometimes, to regain that better sense of gut instinct she used to have before she fell down this rabbit hole. It comes in flashes and she wishes she could will it into more regularity.

Reddington has been silent for too long. She lets her gaze shift from one of the security guards by their host back to him to see what the problem is.

He looks at her with a quiet reserve, and something else, and she remembers another time someone looked at her like this; this was the look on her father's face during her last visit with him, as if he was trying to soak in every detail of their time together.

It was a goodbye and she's spent enough time replaying her last trip to see her father enough to recognize the wistful expression on a person's face.

Is he breaking their agreement? Why didn't he tell her what his plans were?

He went to Cooper with their target's name instead of her.

He promised to never lie to her.

"What are you planning?" she asks him quietly, oddly emotionless and calm despite knowing that whatever he is about to tell her cannot be good, and she stops moving, stepping back slightly. Another couple bumps into her but she makes no attempt to apologize or look anywhere else but Raymond Reddington.

She and her dance partner stare one another down for the length of a few thunderous heartbeats, and when he realizes she's not afraid of drawing attention from others with her stillness, he steps close, raising their still-joined hands, and places his other hand spread wide on her back, pulling her close enough that his cheek brushes along hers.

It's always a push and pull and a fight to stand their separate grounds, isn't it?

When he speaks in a hushed tone into her ear, she feels his hot breath along her neck.

"Seeing as you've spent so much time in the interrogation rooms recently, I planned to keep them from considering you had any knowledge of what is about to take place, and if that plan has any chance of working, you need to keep dancing with me right now, Lizzie, and stop staring at me like you want to stab me again."

The woman allows him to sway them both, and rests her hand on his shoulder once more, which she feels relax slightly since she's seemed to follow his orders.

She quickly slides her hand along the line of his shoulder until her fingers can dip into the back of his tuxedo jacket's collar, past the other layers there, and her freshly manicured nails can dig into the sensitive flesh it conceals.

His only initial reaction is a long, sharp sniff through his nose to disguise his discomfort, but finally he allows a little more room between their bodies, and she can make eye contact with him again. She can't look like she knows, but she also can't appear _too _comfortable dancing with him to Meera and Ressler.

"A half truth is a whole lie, Raymond," she whispers back to him, voice firm. "And you said you'd never lie to me."

His eyes had softened at the sound of his name on her lips, but there's a glint of something sharp in them now.

"When I saw photos of Tom at Angel Station, and realized that I'd seen him before, standing next to you in the photo from your wedding that Sam had sent me, I came to terms with the fact that keeping you safe like I promised my friend was going to be a bit more complicated than I'd earlier anticipated. Always telling you the truth? That was not an anticipated decision, and I've been doing my best to uphold both of those promises ever since."

She takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm, and shakes her head as she looks over at the band before speaking again. "I don't feel sorry for you. I _won't_ feel sorry for you."

Liz can feel him stare at her for a moment. "And I don't want you to. I've made those choices, decided to hold myself to them."

His eyes, suddenly alert, flicker to something over her shoulder for a second, and then he leans in, and speaks so quietly it's almost inaudible.

"We _really_ do need to work on our timing."

There's shouting and a commotion behind them. Liz spins around to see what is going on and finds a group clad head to toe in black, including ski masks and bulletproof vests, starting to fan out around the room. The security guards are immediately unarmed. One of the men in front raises a handgun and she immediately starts to try to push Reddington to the side for better cover.

The gunshot rings in the now silent room, and there are fear-filled screams.

Meera is holding her tray, eyeing the closest guard, but she's too far away and they're outnumbered at least five times over.

Guests are raising their arms in surrender, and a few are already starting to try to remove their jewelry to hand over with shaking hands, but they're ignored.

"No money, no lives, no politicians. We want Raymond Reddington," the one who fired the gun demands.

A few of the others on the dance floor back away from Liz and the man beside her, and just in time, because two of the men have advanced on them and are holding them at gunpoint. Liz raises her hands and puts them on her head, following their barked instructions and within seconds, her arms have been wrenched behind her back and her hands are secured there with plastic zip ties.

No one attempts to stop the group and both she and Red, similarly secured, are rushed into the elevator lobby.

She grits her teeth, seething, because she knows this all has to be something he's cooked up, since he's oddly calm and made no attempt to get her out of this - she knows him well enough to know he would in a real situation.

They both have a guard at their sides with a hand on their shoulder, guiding them down the hallway and around a corner into an area that has been spared the same glamorous decor as the area they just left. The light above is much more industrial and harsh and the walls are covered with cork boards with flyers from the Division of Labor. No one has followed them out into the hallway to see where they went.

Around another corner and they are being led into a stairwell.

"Red," she says warningly.

"It had to be done," he answers, almost apologetic.

She realizes, as they are escorted out onto the ground level, that the plastic zip tie is so loose she can slip her hands from it with little effort; she keeps her hands behind her back but removes the binding as they are marched across checkerboard tile in a dimly lit back hall, far away from the front lobby.

There's an ornate brass mail slot, old and dusty, next to a large service door. There's a padlock on the floor, battered.

It's dark beyond the door, and definitely cooler and more humid, and her eyes are only starting to adjust to the dark when the stutter and hum of a light fixture finally gives way to an actual light, which is directed to an open space to the side and above them, revealing pipes that run down along the walls to the side. It doesn't do much for lighting where they are. She can hear water echoing in the darkness ahead of them.

The door is secured behind them, and one of the guards takes the zip ties from both of them. Reddington thanks him jovially, seemingly right-at-home with this illegal little SWAT team, clearly acting under his orders.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks him again, fully aware she's yelling.

He looks up from fixing the cuffs on his tux. "Cooper will certainly excuse my absence and maintain my immunity deal for the time being if it appears I've been kidnapped."

He'd only orchestrate a disappearance this grand if it needed to be a message to someone beyond the blacksite - he's told her more than once how easily he could slip away if he chose to. This was an announcement of a kind, wasn't it? To who?

Reddington had never replaced his tracking chip after Garrick, so it would take longer for them to even start the search, which would be aggressive since a federal agent was also kidnapped.

He takes the offered flashlight out of the hands of one of the crew; they're all in the process of pulling off their masks and securing various lights to their gear.

"Ready when you are, sir," says a woman with a heavy German accent. "The door will take them a bit to get through when they finally catch on to the decoy group in the helicopter."

"Fantastic work as always, Ulla," Reddington replies before continuing to speak to her in German. It's too dark to see what the woman hands him, but it's silver. "You can start out, we'll just be a minute here," Reddington replies before turning back to Liz and gesturing her over to the side.

"You better have a damn good explanation for all of this, Raymond Reddington."

"I have a lead," he says quietly so his voice won't echo, and the look of hope on his face kills any words of protest she was preparing. "It means getting in bed with some unsavory sorts for a few weeks and assuring them those rumors about my agreement with the government are false, but this…" Reddington's voice is so thick he has to swallow before he continues. "They know who has my daughter, who took her. If I help them, I might be able to circumvent any kind of standoff with Compton. I could keep both of you safe"

He's trying to keep her from being involved, and to tell her this speaks volumes. He's spent years trying to find his daughter, she knows that, and he's been willing to do anything for even the smallest of clues as to her fate. Isn't that why he came up with the blacklist in the first place?

Together, they could find out more about whoever it was that Tom works for as well.

She can see the tension in every line of his body and she exhales deeply before saying "Okay. Alright. Let's do this."

He shows no signs of moving from their spot. Liz can only just see his eyes are a little too bright, as if they're wet.

He looked like he was preparing to say goodbye before.

"No!" she shouts, understanding what he's intending to do. She reaches for his shoulders, to hold him still while she tells him she's not staying behind, to shake some sense into him, but within seconds he's grabbed her wrist, raised it over her head, and handcuffed her to a pipe.

They're eye to eye and so close she considers head-butting him, but if she has any hope of getting him to reconsider she only has a few minutes to get him to see reason.

"You son a bitch," she seethes. "Why would you bring me this far just to-"

He answers in a feigned even voice, the only sort of lie he has ever allowed between them. "Because I need a witness. Because in every scenario I prepared for, you tried to stop me."

He pauses and doesn't say 'Because I never thought you'd offer to help me,' but they both know it's what he's thinking.

She hears him swallow.

"Because believe it or not, a tiny trace of the good man I was still remains in me, and bringing you with me is not what a good man would do. That's the kind of decision you'd need to think about and not be rushed into - you deserve that. We both do."

Whatever this is between them is pressing on her chest, making her acutely aware of her own heartbreak and preventing her from breathing properly.

Liz hasn't stood at the edges of many cliffs, but she has that same sense of vertigo now.

"Be careful," she warns him, unnecessarily, exhaling heavily.

He dips his head in acknowledgement, not breaking eye contact. "You as well.

"I have a flash drive here with more names, information. You could find it in my car, or maybe one of my homes, while you're looking for me. Details are up to you."

"Too obvious," she says, shaking her head. "You can give that to me when you get back."

Another answer that surprises him, it seems. He makes no attempt to make her take the flash drive before he takes a step back, and she can't see his face well enough to read the emotion there.

"I'll see you soon, Lizzie."

He turns his flashlight on and starts in the direction of the others, just on the edge of darkness, his shoulders set. He halts only half a second later and she strains to see beyond him to whatever stopped his progress.

Reddington turns around and closes the distance between them quickly.

"Maybe I'm not as good a man as I thought I was," he mutters quickly before he has an arm around her waist and she's doing her own part to close the space between them, a hand clawing into the lapel of his jacket, thumbnail slipping again between cloth and flesh at the collar and scratching at his neck unintentionally, along the small scar she left him with when they first met.

It barely passes for a kiss; Liz is going to have swollen lips when her team finds her and she's never going to forget the feel and the sound in her head when their teeth clicked together. It's messy and needy and desperate, in a way they haven't allowed themselves to be appear, but it's there and out in the open now.

The hand on her waist dips lower, and his other one expertly finds the slit of her dress, sliding around her thigh up to her hip, fingers hot and burning.

He's only just pushed her against the wall, pressing his hips into hers, when a breathy little noise of happy surprise escapes her lips and shakes her enough to make her remember that this is the last place they should be doing this. Ignoring her own internal protest, she manages to get out his name.

"Ray-Raymond."

His forehead comes to rest against her.

"I know," he sighs, almost reluctant. "I know."

Liz could probably measure the timespan between the beginning of their kiss until now in seconds, but the damage is done and it's going to haunt both of them. Her ears are ringing like a grenade went off.

She licks her lips, and almost brushes his in the process. "No handcuffs next time."

"Let's leave that on the table for future negotiations," he replies.

She kisses him, close-lipped and firm, and pushes gently on his shoulder to start him on his way.

It isn't that long until part of the task force gets the door open and finds her there, and she only hopes that the shared moment of weakness didn't ruin Reddington's escape.

She tells the others part of the truth - men ambushed the party and dragged them out, and they left her behind but took Reddington with them. She tells them a few lies - she didn't see any faces and Reddington didn't know them.

There's no sign of Nicky Owen in his cell phone, but they have enough to tie the athlete-host and several others to the prostitution ring and a laundry list of drug charges, and they make several arrests, finding a fugitive or two amongst the guests.

Busy hours pass after, reviewing CCTV feeds from the building and interviewing the staff at the event. A group follows the tunnel and finds that after they pry the heavy metal door open, it leads to a boiler room in a building a few blocks away, but all the security cameras from the street were blocked by construction or traffic.

At one point Liz changes into work clothes in the private office bathroom and pulls the discovered flash drive out of the waistband of her underwear, cheeks burning as she does. She realized he'd left it on her while she was waiting but there was no way to retrieve it until now, and it gets slipped into her trouser pocket so she can review it later, in private. The dress is zipped carefully back into its garment bag, which travels back to her hotel room in the early hours of morning.

In a few hours, they'll head back to the Post Office to regroup and start the hunt for whoever kidnapped Raymond Reddington.

The door chirps as her card swipe is accepted, but she already senses the room is empty, the air chilled and stale. The hotel has been under surveillance since the abduction.

There is a stuffed dog waiting for her on her bed.

It's just about half the size of Hudson, with fur the same color and texture. She picks it up and finds that it _smells_ of all too familiar cologne; instinctively, she lets the garment bag slip to the bed, as she curls her arms around its plush body and that is how she finds the note rolled up around the toy's ribbon collar.

_Harmless and doesn't bark at strangers like it should - seemed as good a guard dog as the real thing. _

_Take care Elizabeth Scott._

_Yours,_

_Raymond Reddington _

Elizabeth sinks onto the edge of the bed and puts the note and the dog beside her. She needs to focus, needs to prepare for the days or weeks or months ahead, the pretend chase for his captors that will take place.

She knows he's thought this one though, so there will be some sort of sightings or clues that make their way back to the FBI to let them know he's still alive out there. He'd be risking his immunity otherwise.

Would he even need it if he finds his daughter?

She unzips the bag to fix the shoulder straps of the dress since fabric had pooled in the bottom of the bag earlier. Liz slides her fingers over the fabric.

There are six beads on each of the mesh side panels of her dress, sewn slightly spaced out but in a waving line. Six dark purple-red beads that dug into her hips when Raymond Reddington held her and pulled her against him and let her _feel_ what she did to him, solid and primal and undeniable.

Liz runs her fingers over the beads and feels a bubble of laughter build in her chest that escapes the confines of her mouth. The immediate intake of breath that follows is more of a sob, just one, as she feels her shoulders drop and she surveys the silent, empty New York hotel room, not unlike the silent empty DC hotel room waiting for her.

She tours four apartments in the next week and picks the one that allows her to move in the soonest, and in the few hours she's not looking for a man who doesn't want to be found unpacks her items with a sense of determination, as if each of the newly purchased items is pinning her to the place, to her job, to her life. At least for now.

Her important belongings remain in the house that is not a house outside of Bethesda.

She's learned when you live through enough disasters, you learn the value of things - their true weight - and how to take precautions.

* * *

><p><strong>Fun facts:<strong>

Erik Weisz (or Weiss - there's several different spellings attributed to him) is better known to the world as Harry Houdini.

Saint Nicolas Owens is the patron saint of escapologists and illusionists. He was known for constructing priest holes - places to hide Catholic priests who were being sought, sometimes relying on optical illusions to conceal the priest holes - during Queen Elizabeth I's reign, and successfully planning an escape from the Tower of London. There's also stories of him being arrested and tortured but not giving away any information to the Queen's men.

Liz's Zuhair Murad dress is actually a deep navy blue in the 2013-2014 Fall Winter collection, but come on, we all know red is definitely her color. :)

New York's underground infrastructure really does not have a complete map like Red said. There's some incredible stuff down there. Efforts to expand subway tunnels and other excavation have revealed all kinds of things that were lost or never documented. The magazine Wired has run a couple pieces about it.


	11. I Didn't Rest I Didn't Stop

**A/N: Don't own a damn thing. Chapter title from 'Feel it All' by Feist.**

**So one of my favorite reviews that I've gotten on this fic is was from JFJD on that said 'Liz was living like a crazy person lol'.**

**Guess what?**

**I am that crazy person.**

**I have been living like a crazy person.**

**l.o.l.**

**I mean, in the general, politically incorrect sense of that term - I haven't checked into a Rehoboth Beach hotel and covered the walls with facts about one of the FBI's Most Wanted (although I did stay in town overnight), but last month marked the end of a very busy season for me, work-wise, and I expected things would quiet down enough for me to really bang out chapters at a faster pace.**

**I have never once been able to have this work out for me so why I thought it would be different now, I don't know.**

**In summary: A national event, a state-event and another in the works, work with a tv production company, working with the mayor's office, a magazine way past deadline that I'm suddenly supposed to help with, a sister home from college, a grandmother needing surgery unexpectedly and well life ugh, have kept me from writing and updating and in general being a part of the Blacklist fandom I have grown to love so much, and I apologize for that.**

**Thank you for all of your incredible, thoughtful reviews and your patience. You're all lovely people.**

**Warning: This chapter has some physical violence described in it.**

* * *

><p><strong>December 2013<strong>

**D**C has forgotten its usual sense of bureaucratic blandness for the holiday season. Everything is covered in tinsel, holiday lights, and sales ads, and it feels a little more like New York than the rest of the year. Liz usually enjoys it, but even when she goes out for drinks with others from work, pink cheeked from the cold and smiling from a general sense of winter cheer, she barely feels it. Despite her attempts to grab at normalcy where she can, it always seems out of her reach.

Italy, since she stepped off the plane earlier, has been a bit of relief. It's decorated and festive, but so far from what she's witnessed, the city of Messina is preparing for the holiday with a little more subtlety.

It's been sixteen days since the night of the New York event and her last conversation with Raymond Reddington. It's been fourteen since Dembe contacted her and asked if she would be willing to help while he visits some of Reddington's business contacts, assuring them with face-to-face conversation and transactions that things are still normal.

Liz didn't even hesitate before answering the man; she told Cooper she was working with Red's bodyguard to help follow some leads, and he readily believed it. The first week was spent visiting some associates in the States, but she hasn't been on US soil in four days. She barely finished moving into her apartment before she was pulling her suitcase back out and stuffing it with clothes to jump on the private plane with Dembe.

From time to time she checks in with DC, updating them with her lack of progress and occasionally even telling them where she actually is.

Last week she was singing karaoke, happily buzzed with her coworkers. This week she's already spent one night trying to learn the words to a drinking song in a language she doesn't know with a group containing faces she recognizes from TV and textbooks on organized crime.

They share equal ranking as far as enjoyment goes.

Maybe she should be less accepting of the world she's been thrown into, but it's comfortable, an extension of the world she grew up in. Her sense of moral black and white is settling back into old familiar shades of grey.

She's listened to stories from some of the people they visit about their interactions with Red. They're a mix of kindness and cruelty, protectiveness and opportunistic actions. There's a lawyer in Provence who think he's all but a noir mobster brought to life who protects his smuggling routes with finesse, and there's a grandmother in Devon who thinks he's a saint and saved her grandson from trouble with a gang.

Liz thinks of the man, barefoot and singing Cat Stevens, trying to crack a safe for fun.

There's been no contact with him, but Dembe seems to be doing a fantastic job of assuring associates there's no reason to worry. It's a sign of just how much trust both men have in her, she realizes, if she's here with him. This wasn't a trip down the rabbit hole as some of the past jaunts have been, when Reddington called her for a meeting and she found herself meeting him in all kinds of places she could easily have swarmed by Feds (he knew she'd never call any of it in, she realizes now, with embarrassment). This time, she knew exactly what was going to happen when she accepted the offer to accompany the man's bodyguard.

Business as usual means this trip to Messina to visit a contact. Reddington has quarterly meeting with this specific person, and it's been two months since the time they should have met with her.

Dembe knocks on the apartment door, and she watches as he seems to _grow_ next to her, take up more space.

A guard swings the door open to find an interesting pair before her: a dark haired, blue-eyed woman with a welcoming smile and a taller, imposing man with dark skin and his lips in a thin, flat line.

He knows the second one, doesn't know the first, and Liz can see he's immediately suspicious. Dembe gives Red's identity that works as a pass to assure the man everything is fine.

"Mr. Valenti couldn't make it today and sends his deepest apologies," he says, and gestures to the FBI agent. "Miss Applegate will be assisting with the transaction today."

Liz leans forward slightly, taking the half step to bring her closer to the man's personal space and to also allow her to hear noise inside the apartment. There's the echo of high heels approaching at a sedate pace, but nothing suspicious. When she did her walk around the block of this Messina apartment building earlier, nothing looked out of place or of a security concern, but she isn't about to take any chances.

"Lorenzo, I pay you to keep me safe, not be a brute. Let them in already."

The woman - Filomena - appears over the guard's shoulder. After a second, he takes a half step to the side and allows them to enter, closing the door behind them and then preceding them through the well kept, open and airy space to a sitting room off of the entryway and the spiral staircase in it.

Filomena is older, but she's wrapped in expensive business clothes and her grey-streaked hair is long and falls down her back. She walks like she knows someone is watching her walk and she enjoys it, with a mix of regality and understated feminine, feline slink.

"You ought to convince Senore Valenti to start meeting me in my office again," the older woman sighs while she gracefully seats herself on the couch, one long leg crossing over the other. "He has been so tense in all of our recent interactions. I told him and you tell him again, he ought to visit the office and unwind a bit."

Dembe makes no move to sit, nor gives Liz any sign she should, but she knows when she stands she's prone to hover and give off 'cop vibes', so she takes a seat in the armchair beside her. There is only the small sound of fabric rustling to alert her to Dembe's movements; he's standing behind and to the side of her chair, a silent sentinel.

She and Dembe can both easily see Lorenzo, from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes, and the gun in its holster on his hip, exposed due to his blazer on a coat rack in the entryway.

Their host busies herself lighting a cigarette, taking in Elizabeth Scott, her practical business clothing, and comfortable but well-made boots for some sort of preformed mental checklist; it's too quick, too competent to not be well practiced. She knows a little of what the woman must see: Her makeup and hair are subtle and standard, and her manicure from earlier in the week is showing signs of chipping. There's a small wrinkle in her pant leg that just wouldn't come out despite her best efforts with the small hotel room iron on the steam setting because she had politely turned down Dembe's suggestion to send it out for dry cleaning via room service.

Liz can finally pin down who Filomena reminds her of: those glamorous women in those old noir films, the older ones with tense scenes of lighting cigarettes and billowing curtains.

Filomena exhales out of pursed lips. "Perhaps you play a role in his decision," the woman muses out loud, waiting for her reaction.

Their lines of work both hinge on their ability to read personalities, although they're very different.

It's said without animosity, but Liz doesn't break eye contact, not even to blink, when she answers, matter-of-factly "Valenti choosing not to visit your bordello is his own choice; you know him well enough to know he doesn't want anyone possibly putting together that you're the person he's getting information from - that's for your protection."

Dembe steps forward, as if sensing the two women are trying to feel one another out and it could escalate, but makes the movement smooth enough not to alarm the guard, and hands the thick envelope from inside his jacket to Filomena to divert their attention.

"The rest on delivery - the usual, correct?" Liz says, because it diverts the pair's attention from Dembe, and she knows if there is any sort of trap, he's going to be the quicker draw, the faster, more precise response for their protection.

The woman across from her is rather observant, and sees what she's done. She smiles at Liz, an amiable smile before echoing the same praise Liz is thinking.

"You have sharp eyes. You're not new to this life."

"I take care of myself," Liz responds, judging it a sufficient reply.

"You survive." When Liz nods, the older woman continues, "I survive. The women who work with me, they survive, too. We like to survive, yes? It's our personality, our blood."

"In our own ways, yes."

"Are you his companion, Miss Applegate - his escort?"

She's quick to correct Filomena's misunderstanding. "Oh no, I could never-"

A delicately penciled eyebrow rises, and Liz sees the first layer of emotional detachment, a layer of the woman's armor, start to drop into place, but she continues, elaborating, "I'm not really a 'people' person."

Filomena laughs, and the veneer of the business woman disappears; it's a full-bellied laugh, and it's accompanied by the kind of smile that involves a wide open mouth and her eyes.

Lorenzo relaxes slightly.

"Oh, I think I like you," Filomena declares, eyes sparkling. "No wonder he's not paid me a visit. I imagine you keep him busy, yes?"

Liz feels the corner of her lip twitch upward, but she doesn't answer, and is saved from doing so thanks to Lorenzo stepping forward with an expensive leather folio. Opening it now would seem like she didn't trust them, so Liz thanks the guard, and hands the other envelope with the remaining money to Filomena. Typically, there's a delay between the two steps of the process, and Liz has a good idea of what usually goes on during that time gap.

With business concluded, Dembe and Elizabeth make their way back to the hotel. They're leaving in the morning, returning stateside, so Liz can put in some time in the office.

She's hit a wall with her own search into the group that Ellen and Tom were both connected to. While the mark has appeared in some evidence in a handful of the cases she has access to, there's no pattern, no real way to get a sense of who is behind it. It's only thanks to some programming Aram threw together that she was able to find any of the cases at all - the design is subtle and has been missed several times in analysis.

As much as she hated to ask Aram for the help, she knew he was looking to be involved, to prove his friendship to her. She keeps his knowledge to a minimum, however.

The pair passes under holiday lights strung on the narrow, old street where their hotel is located, and Liz wonders if she can find a reason to be out of the country for Christmas, go someplace quiet. It's not like any of her family are expecting her; after the fire, December 25 was never really her family's Christmas, since traveling then would raise too much suspicion...

She would have walked past the hotel if it weren't for Dembe hooking a hand around her arm gently. He dismisses her apologies and they make their way through the deceptively simple lobby, barely more than a front entryway, and past the employee at the Check-In Desk who greets them before they take a flight of stairs up to their floor.

"You seem preoccupied today," Dembe says quietly as they enter their hotel suite.

"Sorry," she replies, "a lot on my mind."

The bodyguard is quiet for only a second, which means he was preparing to say something on the way back to the hotel. "Filomena is an interesting woman...a perceptive woman."

He purposely tries to make eye contact with her as he removes his coat, but Liz ignores that last part and his gaze as she collapses onto the couch in the small sitting area of the hotel suite.

It's modest, smaller than Raymond would typically stay in, but it serves their purposes more than well enough. To the right of the seating area is a dining area, with a table for eight, and beyond the back of the couch is a central area leading to a bathroom and two bedrooms.

A rumble from Dembe's stomach has her laughing.

"I'm hungry, too," she assures him.

"Filomena probably already told Aldo we were coming for dinner," he informs her. "Do you want to head back out or should I bring it back? His restaurant is about a five minute walk from here."

Now that she's seated, jet lag seems to have finally hunted her down and she's not really finding it easy to even get up from the couch. "Would you mind bringing it back?" she asks him.

"Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes," he assures her while he retrieves his coat and room key.

His stomach protests once again, and Liz can't suppress another laugh.

"Don't eat it all," she teases him, and he volleys back in kind.

"This I cannot guarantee."

The door shuts and the woman lets herself sink back into the couch with a smile on her face. Her friendship with the bodyguard has been a quick but comfortable one, and she can't imagine Mr. Kaplan would be as easy a companion to travel with.

She summons enough energy to push up off of the couch with a loud groan, for her own benefit, to take her jacket off in her room. Purse deposited on the dresser, she returns to the plump sofa to mindlessly channel surf for the short remaining time before her friend returns.

The knock at the door draws Liz's attention, but only slightly. Dembe has a room key, and will-

It's not his knock; the sound is rattling from lower down on the door, more of a fleshy fist than intentionally loud knuckles.

"Room service, Senore Rispole."

They didn't use that particular alias checking in here, haven't since two hotel stays ago.

Exhaustion forgotten, Liz pushes herself off the couch, practically leaping for the bedroom doorway and her gun beyond it, before the door is being rammed open. She skitters mid-step, hands finding purchase on the small end table beside the edge of the couch, to change direction and move towards the closer bathroom door at the last second.

Gut instinct has her yanking the small but heavy brass candlestick lamp from the side table as she moves, feels the cord finally give and come unplugged from the wall as she braces herself at the bathroom's door jamb.

A large, burly man takes up most of the space of the suite's main entrance, and while she doesn't immediately see a gun in his hand, she knows it's probably in the back of his waistband, too easily drawn for her to make the dash for her gun.

His eyes dart towards the bedroom door for the briefest of moments, but she sees it.

He didn't think she'd be alone.

"Red, run!" she yells in the direction of the bedroom, hoping to divert the man's attention.

It works, but not the way she expects. He pulls the gun from his waistband and aims for her.

Panic is icy in her gut as she throws the lamp at his head and tries to drop to the floor as quickly as possible. It's a messy move as she pushes back up after she hears the shot fired and a grunt of pain at almost the same time - the lamp hit something on him at least -and she throws herself at him, hoping to take advantage of his loosened grip on the gun.

It hits the floorboards somewhere nearby, but she's now too close to the man, too easily overpowered by her assailant and she needs to move fast to keep her slight advantage. She tries to kick at his knee from the side, but he's recovered, and turns towards her. The side of her foot slips and she knows she's made a mistake a second before he lunges and grabs at her throat, sending her backwards towards the dining room table.

Panic and rage build on one another, and she instinctively tries to sink her fingernails into his hands and their unwavering grip. They're both breathing heavily, but her own breath is growing choked and labored and she feels the pressure growing in her eyes and ears. One hand is still trying to pry his fingers away, the other frantically reaches behind her on the table for cutlery to stab him with, but she's at a bad angle and there's nothing there.

Liz lets herself relax so suddenly that he pitches forward into her, and she gets a leg between his and wrapped around the back of his knee, putting all the energy she can into pressing her heel into the back of the joint.

It works, and he starts to trip, his fingers squeezing even tighter for a second, but her own fall is deterred when her back comes into contact with the table and she flings her hands, clawing at the tablecloth. Dizzy, she sucks in a breath so ragged it's a shriek while she grabs at the table's edge. She kicks him in the face.

She knows the sound she hears, even as she breathes heavily. She broke his nose, maybe she even got his cheekbone on the second kick if she's lucky, and fucked up his vision. .

Her own eyesight is blurred by involuntary tears and she's coughing as she quickly twists and pushes off the table to put distance between them. She doesn't know where his gun is, but hers is in the bedroom and she could buy herself some time by getting a door between them, too.

She pushes herself along the wall as rapidly as she can, but it's not quick enough, and clearly her attacker has a high tolerance for pain, because he's hurtling into her, bringing her down in the bathroom doorway onto her knees.

The fall jars her whole body, reverberating up her spine and rattling her teeth, but the pain only fuels her anger and she twists to her side to get a good kick to the side of his knee, try to bring him down.

But he's already lowering himself to the floor, trying to get his hands back around her throat, and they wrestle to block one another's blows. Sweating and bleeding and incensed, neither is succeeding until her assailant gets behind her and pushes her downward, throat against the high edge of the tub for a second before getting his hands back to their placement from before and he's got gravity and his weight helping him this time.

Liz knows her grip on the flimsy towel bar beside her isn't enough to buck the man after two attempts to push up with it, so instead she yanks down and pries it loose of the wall. She hopes she doesn't get herself with it when she pulls her arm back towards her and brings the bar against the side of the man's head.

It's a dizzying blow and she thinks she may have hit his ear, enough to buy her time push off of the tub's edge and whack him with it, one-handed again, before sliding to the side and out from under him. Leaning against the edge of the tub to support her weight, she takes the towel bar in both hands and swings with all her might, landing the blow with bone-breaking force to his cheekbone.

Room spinning as she fights to catch her breath, she sees how disoriented the man is, clinging only a hair's breadth away from her to the tub but making no move to go after her, and she scrambles to stand as quickly as she can, but falls back on her hands and knees.

His gun is closer.

She crawls out of the bathroom and grabs it from its place by the couch and finally pulls herself up to stand, leaning on the doorframe. She's shaking, but she knows it won't be a problem. Not from this close.

There's noise from the doorway of the hotel suite and sees it's Dembe, but can't be bothered to stop, even as he shouts at her to do so.

The man in the bathroom has pushed himself up to sit with his back against the tub for support, and he's scrounging in his pocket with one hand, the other protectively covering the side of his face. He can only see out of one eye, but he makes eye contact with her a second before she pulls the trigger.

The shot enters his chest. It's a decent shot, considering her current state.

Liz stares at the body in the bathroom, slumped against the bathtub and cooling and while she gets more air into her lungs, she processes what just happened.

The gun is still warm in her hand.

It's not like this when she's working, when she has a purpose, permission. It was one thing to shoot someone in the line of duty, but this is different. It's more personal.

She stares at the body and replays the situation and realizes there were a dozen different things she could have done to subdue him instead of killing him, but this is just like Garrick's siege at the Post Office - she was making decisions without any time to really think them through, to analyze them.

He was a threat to her life, and she got rid of it in the most simple and brutal way possible.

She probably could have knocked him out with one more hit, found out who sent him after tying him up.

Her knee jerk reaction was survival.

"Liz?"

Dembe has been talking to her, she realizes now, and has to force herself to tear her eyes away from the corpse watching her, accusatory in death, and the expression on Dembe's face and his voice are new to her - he's being careful, cautious approaching her, as if she was a landmine. She knows he could disarm her in a matter of seconds if he needed to, easily overpowering her, but he is being kind.

"Are you alright? he asks.

Why lie? She just got thrown around a room and nearly strangled and stabbed.

"He tried to kill me." Her throat hurts, and her voice is a breaking, hoarse thing.

His hand is reaching out for the gun, tentatively. His lip is split, and there's a dark, wet spot around a hole in the arm of his shirt.

They must have sent someone after him, too.

"Elizabeth, give me the gun, please. I'll take care of this, I'll call Mr. Kaplan. Don't worry."

She looks down at the gun in her hand and back at the body. No paperwork this time. No coroner report to wait for. No debriefing. No mandated time with a psychologist to clear her for duty - she could just keep going with her life.

When she's with Dembe or Reddington, she could leave a trail of bodies and not worry, not have to think about it. They would take control of the situation and allow her to compartmentalize her actions; toe tags attached to mountains of paperwork in one box, nothing in the other. They'd let her be that blameless, thoughtless, if she wants it.

That's not her. She's always owned her actions, and she's not going to stop now.

His hand is slowly wrapping around the gun when she tries to make her half step away from him and his grasp subtle.

"No," she says, and it's a nice feeling, saying that word, so she repeats it. "No. I'll call Kaplan."

She looks down, and not at him as she tucks the gun in the back of her waistband, but she feels his worried gaze assessing her and the situation. Mr. Kaplan will probably want the handgun when she comes to clean, but for now, she keeps the tension in her shoulders a little less by holding on to the weapon.

Liz shrugs out of her jacket, throwing it over the leg of an upturned chair before returning to the bathroom and rolling up her sleeves.

Blood is drying on her arms and face and she's keenly aware of where it is, and that it isn't all her own. She knows she's going to hurt later. Better to get this part done with now, before it's worse.

Liz looks her friend squarely in the eye. "Show me what to do."

What comes next is just long periods of quiet. There's a quiet, a pressing, analytical one, after Liz calls Mr. Kaplan and tells the cleaner she's calling on her own behalf. Quiet while they both silently recall the FBI agent's words that day in the Twelfth Street apartment - "I can't do this, I'm a federal agent" - before Kaplan answers, and gives Liz another number to call for a cleaner who is in the country and trustworthy.

There's quiet as Liz and Dembe try to organize the room - hotel security is paid off but they work quickly, just in case there's another assailant if this one failed.

There's a quiet, when they search the body for clues and find a case with a syringe and vial in it. It wasn't meant for her, and it wasn't meant for Dembe. They both know who was the real target, and he wasn't even with them.

There's quiet as they move the body into the tub - it's a quiet punctuated by rumpled clothing and a squeaking sort of noise as a limp hand drags palm-side down along the side of the tub.

Later, in another hotel, where the smell of cleaning chemicals, and copper, and fear still cling to Liz despite her shower, she can't stand the buzzing, humming quiet in her own head anymore, and she turns to the man beside her on the couch in the cheap hotel room they're sharing.

"You have some way of getting him on the phone, some way to contact him."

She doesn't bother to even frame it as a question. She's spent enough time with Dembe to know that he's efficient in every way; he speaks little because really, not a lot needs to be said - he's the very antithesis of Red in that manner. He appreciates efficiency in reciprocation.

Dembe turns slowly from the screen - it's some black-and-white, fast-paced slapstick piece of film with people rapidly speaking in Italian and she hasn't been paying it any attention, although Dembe has been engrossed in it and laughing.

"No matter where you go, and what time it is, there is always a channel playing these. You don't need to know how to speak a language to laugh," he told her earlier on in the week after she asked him about it.

In front of them, a man is stuck in a revolving door, like a hamster in a wheel, and an officer tries to grab him out but keeps failing. Dembe studies her for a moment, as if judging the appropriateness of the time, and Liz feels something like desperation in her gut and the back of her throat.

"Please, Dembe."

He nods, after a second, and retrieves the Sat phone from his jacket, hung over the arm of the couch next to him.

"Leave a message for Mr. Burton and say you don't know the room number."

The person who answers doesn't sound very customer service-friendly, but then again, it's not really a hotel. She leaves the message and when she tries to give Dembe the phone back, he tells her to keep it for the time being, and her fingers curl around the heavy plastic.

She knows she ought to go crawl into one of the twin-sized beds that are being charged as queen-sized, but she doesn't want to close her eyes and see that man's face, or allow herself to consider the several dozen things she could have done instead of shoot that man.

She doesn't want to sleep easy, either, and she thinks she might.

She also doesn't want to allow that cold, clear, confident voice in the back of her mind, the one that seems to keep cutting through the noise. The one that is her very own, telling her she's a survivor, to accept it. The one that says she chooses herself, that she chooses the better odds, even when she doesn't think about it.

It would be easy to compartmentalize everything into the box in her mind for work-related transgressions, but it doesn't fit.

It belongs right next to the memory of reaching for the gun in that apartment across from her house, that desperate hope for better timing than the other man. That was for her survival, then, as it was now.

She's half dozing, sitting up on the couch, when it starts to ring in her hand and causes her to jump. Quickly waking up, she shows the screen to Dembe to see if he recognizes it and after he gives her an affirmative nod, she answers it with her now-memorized greeting.

"Roseate Industries, how may I dire-"

"Lizzie."

His voice is quiet, almost tense, and if she was less knowledgeable of him, she'd think it was annoyed.

Just one word, her name, and her throat feels dry, and there's an ache in her chest that feels like the beginning of a chasm about to open.

It's only been weeks and this is her reaction? This is how much she misses him?

"Lizzie?"

"Yeah, I'm-yes. Hang on."

She stands up, pads into the small bathroom, and closes the door for the little privacy it affords, knowing her roommate won't be offended by the move.

"Is it safe to talk?" he asks.

"Clean. We checked. Yes...How long do we have?" She leans her hip against the bathroom sink.

"My absence will be noticed," he responds, with a hint of apology, and disappointment tastes metallic in her mouth. "Is everything alright, Lizzie?"

"Someone came to our hotel today - broke down the door. They seemed surprised I was alone."

She wants to say 'They didn't think I was going to be alone.' She wants to tell him 'They asked for you and the fake hospitality cart had a note for you on it'. She keeps her lips pressed together, grimly, to prevent herself from saying 'People know, Raymond Reddington, or they've put it together for themselves. They know I'm with you.'

With her eyes closed, she can picture the tension in his frame, the way he's probably sorting through possible words in his mouth before speaking, quietly, elegantly. "Will this be the last piece of business you assist with, or would you like me to talk to Dembe about improved security measures?"

"It's - No. It's taken care of."

A euphemism he'd appreciate, she thinks. Delicate and gracious, simpler and smaller than a body and cleaning materials and gloves and a replaced shower curtain and money pressed into the hands of room service workers and security staff.

There's just the quiet, static-punctuated buzz between them for the span of a few breaths, before the man countless miles away murmurs quietly in her ear "Are you okay?"

Is she? Up until now, she hasn't even really asked herself that question; she's only been worried about her potential response to everything that's taken place today. She's anticipated some sort of emotionally-tortured breakdown on her part. She _has_ to be upset about it. She _should_ be upset about it.

Not once, did she actually _ask_ herself the question. Liz opens her eyes and looks at her reflection in the mirror.

She cried for a few minutes in the car, to get it out of her system. She hasn't felt the need to do it again, not even in the shower.

She napped in the car.

She and Dembe went to a fast-food restaurant for dinner.

She feels guilty but she is alive and if she hadn't pulled the trigger, she'd probably be dead now.

There is no hesitation in her answer, no flicker in her face to betray a falsehood. She tells him the truth.

"I'm going to be fine."


	12. Silent Night, Broken Night

**All the previous chapters have been reloaded with some minor edits and with dates added to each one. This will be the format from now on. **

**Still don't own any of this, sadly. Chapter title comes from the Lisa Hannigan and Damien Rice version of 'Silent Night'. Chapter track posted over on this fic's 8tracks mix. **

* * *

><p><strong>December 2013<strong>

When Liz and Dembe walk into the Post Office, the first person that sees them is Ressler, and from flash of concern that passes over his face before he can control it, Liz realizes she must be worse for wear than she thought.

"I'll walk with you guys to medical," the agent tells them with staged cheer. Subtle.

In all honesty, she's kind of glad he did catch them, since she was pretty sure she was going to fail at strong-arming Dembe into a visit to the doc to get his arm looked at. Sure, it's a graze, but neither had med equipment with them - the cleaner didn't have anything with him either, since he wasn't used to having to help clean up the _living_ - and they'd done what they could with the emergency kit on the plane.

There would be more questions if she was entirely stitched back up when she came back in. It's better they have the impression she high-tailed it back into headquarters. It keeps people like Ressler from questioning just how involved she is with Reddington's work.

Clearly, Ressler wants to ask her something, but since he's not talking, she's not going to. Her voice isn't entirely back just yet, and there's a twinging ache when she tries to use it. They part at the automatic doors to the medical area.

The doc upstairs nervously makes a joke about her earning frequent flyer miles before releasing them a little more bandaged than before. Dembe tells her he'll be in touch before he leaves and Liz is left to face her superiors and tell them what happened.

She tells Cooper a heavily altered version of events, saying, instead, that they never met with their intended contact, who Dembe had hoped would be able to give them a lead as to Red's whereabouts.

'There was a brief altercation with the local criminal element,' she tells them.

Coopers eyebrows rise higher than she's ever seen them go, but he accepts the explanation. Tells her they'll be scaling back efforts to find Reddington in the next few weeks to focus on targets that are determined to be of more pressing urgency.

It's like she can hear Raymond Reddington's immunity deal go flying out the window.

She's nervous and being nervous always makes her more aggressive to cover for it, more prone to snapping.

Two days later Ressler physically pulls her off of a perp wanted for arms dealing, but more importantly to Liz, for abusing his son and putting him into a coma a few months prior.

He's awake now. DYFUS report says he's doing fine with the leg in a cast and is responding well to psychological therapy.

The doctors said it's a miracle the boy didn't lose teeth.

The same cannot be said about his father.

The damage is already done by the time Ressler grabs her around the middle and pries her away, stumbling to the side so they can cuff the man and bring him in.

"What the _fuck_, Scott?" he hisses at her later in the Post Office elevator. There's a dull throb in her knuckles, but otherwise she feels pretty damn fine, and Liz finds she has to school her features into the corresponding looks of shock and contrition as the day goes by and once again, she has to give report.

The incident is written up.

It's almost Christmas, so no one makes her see the shrink.

Christmas comes and she joins Aram and Meera at the movie theater, as they'd planned. They provide their commentary aloud, since there's no one else there. And yes, they move freely from one theater to another without being asked to buy another ticket.

Liz does go back to the counter to buy them when she tells the others she's going for a popcorn refill. Holiday overtime or not, she's an adult and there is no thrill in it.

She finally begs off when it feels like her backside is going numb and leaves her coworkers to return to the solitude of her apartment. Filled with more popcorn and soda than anyone should consume in one sitting, Liz makes the trek back to her place.

The stuffed dog is sitting next to the bowl she throws her keys in at the door. Under his front paw is a scrap of paper with the words _living room_ scrawled on it in very recognizable handwriting.

She still pulls her gun from her purse before she drops it and moves quickly through the small apartment's space to find him sitting on her sofa. He looks comfortable, sitting in the near darkness of the room. His clothing is dark from what she can make out, but there's a towel around his neck and his scalp shines, damp.

He's got his gun resting on that throw pillow she'd picked up from Ikea with a ridiculous name - 'Ullkaktus', Liz recalls, seeing the contrast of dark metal on white fabric.

The tiny little USB-lit Christmas tree Aram bought her is in the corner, progressing through the color wheel slowly and feebly reflecting onto the top of her DVD player. The light doesn't reach the seated man, but it helps her see him.

Her throat is suddenly dry. She swallows before asking him, quietly, "Isn't this the part where you say something like 'I still think he's a shitty guard dog.'?"

She flips the light switch on the wall beside her, the room is flooded in bright light, and it reveals nothing but Raymond and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Hello, Lizzie," he greets her warmly. "Merry Christmas."

"How long?"

He shrugs neatly. "A few hours," he tells her and with it, some of that urgency in her frame bleeds away. "Even criminals want to spend the holiday with family. I've got a few hours where I won't be missed while they're busy."

He leans back a little, relaxing his grip on the gun while seeming to take in the sight of her, and she uses the moment to give him a glance over of her own.

He's dressed neatly, but the clothing is dark and much more casual than she's ever seen him in - jeans look right although seeing them on him is novel. There's that typical air of pleasantry about him, but she thinks it's wearing thin around the edges and exhaustion is sneaking through.

Liz puts her gun down on the bookcase. It's something to do to delay the need to touch him that seems to try to take over rational thought.

Her feet move across the floor, bringing her closer to him, taking a seat beside him on the other side of the pillow. She's close enough to feel the damp warmth coming off of him, the smell of her shower gel.

He was comfortable enough to take a shower in her place - or he felt he needed to - but he's been sitting in the dark waiting for her with a gun.

He anticipated someone else coming through the door.

She frowns. "What's wrong?"

There is no preamble; he simply tells her "Tom's getting ready to break out."

It's Christmas night. Police might have increased staff for the holiday, but it's a mess of a day for them, and her apartment isn't anywhere near the areas they've beefed up patrol.

Liz takes a deep breath and just adds that problem to the pile she already has.

Right. Another problem to add to her growing list.

If Raymond's here waiting for her, he's already disabled whatever monitoring the FBI has set up in her apartment and they can have a nice, long open talk like they need to.

"How did you … _why_ are you here?"

"I think I explained that already, Liz."

Except he didn't and he's evading. A phone call could have worked, or some mysterious lackey stumbling into her out on the street, telling her the news and vanishing an instant later. His reason for being in her apartment is more complicated than that. He's too taught, too removed.

She spies the tumbler sitting on the coffee table before her, half-filled with amber liquid and leans forward to snatch it up, put space between them, trying to buy time, clear her head and figure out what's really going on.

"You know me well enough to know I wouldn't be flattered by someone appearing in my apartment to watch over me in this situation," she states, sipping the remaining scotch, watching him carefully as she does. "And I get the feeling this isn't going to be a long visit."

He dips his head in silent acknowledgement, watching her as much as she's watching him.

It's hard to swallow her next sip. Her throat is too dry.

"We have a lot to talk about, don't we?" she manages to ask him. Things have been left in a very interesting place between them, and she's made it perfectly clear how receptive she is to what took place by helping him since then. Getting a chance to talk in person about this isn't something she's going to take for granted.

He makes a small noise of agreement in the back of his throat, like it's stuck there, before he mutters "You don't know the half of it, Lizzie" while looking around the room, anywhere but her.

He reaches for the short glass in her hand, leaning in to take it from her, and it brings him close enough for her to dart forward and press her lips to his. In barely the span of a fluttering heartbeat, his lips are firm against hers, then suddenly responsive, and then he's up off the couch and standing on the other side of the coffee table.

Vulnerability gives way to anger in the span of a second.

"What the _fuck_, Red," Liz spits as she slams the glass down and jumps up as well, facing him with nothing but that little crap Ikea table she is using as a cheap coffee table between them. She could kick it out of the way, but she is keeping that anger in check, at least for the moment. "Need the handcuffs to make it appealing?"

"Elizabeth," he says warningly, and it's a little too authoritative, too paternal, and she's suddenly seeing red. Her mouth opens, barely enough time to take a quick breath before she's going to demand a reason, but he cuts her off. "You were going to regret that if it continued. I'm certain of that."

Her eyebrows shoot up, and then she composes herself, at least enough to issue a threat. "Raymond Reddington, if you don't tell me whatever it you're here to tell me in the next minute, you will _wish_ I'd called in and had you put back in that box. I swear to God. You keep asking for my help, wanting my cooperation, and then pulling this kind of shit with me and I…"

She stops when she sees the look on his face and damn it, all this time, she's known she could be used against him, as a threat of some kind, but she had no clue how seeing him so shaken could stop her dead in her tracks.

There's so much pressure in the room, on her chest, on her eyes. It's hard to get enough air in her lungs to whisper "Just say it, Raymond. Tell me."

There's a barely perceptible moment where he swallows quickly and seems to mentally prepare himself, and vertigo hits Liz, uncanny and seconds too early, and she almost changes her mind and demands for him not to tell her whatever it is.

He blinks, long and slow, before he starts. "Tom knows, knows enough to put it together at least. He'll probably tell you when he contacts you. I have wanted to, started to so many times and I just…I was selfish, so selfish and I'm a coward and I know it, I do."

He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I was with Sam in Nebraska when I called you, when I asked if you wanted to see him. I was…he'd asked me, the first time he had cancer, and I…Jesus, I never thought he would need me to, and I…"

Liz feels how still she is, feels like she's aware of everything in the room and how it seems to be turning upside down around her, and even though it should be enough to understand what he's trying to say, she wants him to say it, to admit it.

Raymond sees the challenge in her eyes, and his shoulders drop slightly in defeat. "I killed him, Liz. I killed your father. And I can't undo it, I know, but I…I'm sorry I hurt you. I am so sorry I never told you. I'm sorry I kept it from you all this time. He was hurting, and I had made that promise before…" he trails off and swallows and looks like he's at a loss for words and not accustomed to it.

She wants to tell him to leave. She wants to hit him and scratch him and hurt him like he's hurt her. She wants to pick up the phone and tell them to take him away, get him away from her, she wants him to touch her or hold her and absorb the noise and anguish of the scream trapped in her chest. In the end she surprises both of them when, without a word, she turns on her heel and walks into her bedroom and closes the door.

She's a ball of frenetic energy, buzzing and sparking and shocking herself and she's pacing her bedroom like a caged animal for longer than she needs to, but it keeps her from grabbing the dresser or bedside table with both hands and tipping whatever it is. She craves some sort of physical outlet, some destruction, but she tries to keep herself grounded.

All this time, all this time, Reddington's been the one who ended her father's life. He's never said a fucking word and it's hung heavy on her, so heavy, for so long. All this time, she thought she let her father down, wasn't there for him when he needed her most, after he always was there for her.

Red could have told her. He should have told her. All this time.

But she's not as angry as she knows she could be. Should be, maybe.

There's a reason for it. It's there on the tip of her tongue and no,_ no, _fuck_ no, now is not the time to realize something so big and encompassing._

She keeps moving, keeps pacing, can't stop thinking and realizing and finally wrenches open the door to find Raymond sitting in the armchair across the room from her door. His gaze shifts from somewhere not there – maybe a hospital room in a Nebraska, months ago – and immediately seems to prepare himself for whatever she's about to say or do. He stays seated, looking up at her.

"Tell me why I don't hate you, tell me why," she demands, voice shuddering and rough as she advances on him and it's then she notices how out of breath she feels because she's hasn't taken a breath in too long, but keeps going. "Tell me why I know what you did and I-I still-"

The force of it hits her in the heart and the gut mid step, and she hunches over, dropping to the couch a second before the force of her inhalation is pulled from her throat in a jagged sob.

She pushes backwards until she is sitting huddled in the corner of the sofa, gives in to the desire to bring her knees up and she lets him see her pain in her tears - let him see how much she trusts him in the same act that demonstrates how much he's hurt her.

"Tell me why I don't hate you," she orders again after some time. "You son of a bitch. Tell me."

Her eyesight is so blurred with tears, so she can't gauge his reaction until his voice carries to her, rough and remorseful. "Lizzie, I wanted to tell you so man-"

She's not going to let him start on some monologue now, not when she's so angry with him. "Then why didn't you?" she cuts him off. "Why didn't you tell me? Because all this time I didn't know and I've been so-"

The words wither in her mouth when she realizes he had no idea that Dad had asked the same of her.

There are so many thoughts and emotions in her head, clashing into one another, and all she can do is sit on her couch as she lets herself cry.

Guilt had been with her for so long since his death, a sense of failure like a weight that has been pressing on her shoulders, and it's been ripped away too quickly and she is stumbling to gain her balance again.

But any sense of relief she feels because her father really wasn't alone when he died is blotted out by the fact that Reddington has had months to tell her about this and has failed to do so. It's a thought she keeps going back to.

It seems like an eternity, but it's only a few minutes that pass in a quiet filled with breathing and thick swallows and wet inhales in tight throats and stuffy noses before Liz finally speaks again.

"I didn't -" she stops and winces at the sound of her own hoarse voice in the near quiet. "I didn't call them. When I was in my room."

Of course he knows. They've both found a way to sink claws into one another and they're stuck like this.

"I thought about it," she says quietly. "Thought about hurting you. Thought about just staying in there until you had to leave."

"Lizzie you have to know that seeing you hurt, it hur-"

"-Don't you dare finish that," she cuts him off, caustic, teeth bared.

He sits in silence, but she can see him flexing his fingers on the upholstered arms of the chair, like he's stopping himself from moving. Towards the door, towards her, she's not sure.

She doesn't know how much time is left before he has to leave, but knows they have to resolve this before he goes…maybe resolve isn't the right word. She just knows they can't leave it like this before he walks out that door.

"He asked me to do it," Liz finally says, because they're someplace right now where blunt and to-the-point is the only thing they can afford between one another. She picks at imaginary lint on the edge of the cushion next to her thigh before she looks up at him. "He never told me he'd asked more than one person to help him. But that was him, wasn't it? Just kind of…quietly thorough."

Her dad's best friend is silent, awfully still for a moment or two as he processes what she's saying, and then he all but collapses back into the seat. Horror and anger and regret all flit over his features so quickly she'd miss them if he wasn't the sole focus of her now clearing gaze.

"_Jesus_, Sam," he mutters darkly, a hand wiping down his face and then rising to pass over his scalp.

For a half second, Liz wants to protest, to defend her father's choice, but can't. She absolutely understands. She's thought the same thing. She wormed her way around those feelings with time but that was where she started, too.

She studies the empty tumbler on the table before her, considers refilling it, and then thinks better of it.

Liz exhales heavily, but it's shaky. "This is really fucked up, Raymond."

"Yes it is, sweetheart," is his weary response.

She tips her heavy head back and closes her eyes, and it's gritty and stings and she can feel the wet weight of her own eyelashes on her cheeks. "I'm going to be angry about this for a while. I'm not…you should have told me."

Forgiveness is one of those things she's barely given much thought in recent years. When she was younger, slights were small and easily forgiven. People screwed up, and she accepted it. The memories of cousins breaking favorite toys and childhood emotional outbursts are vague, so emotionally unimportant to her they are given little space in her memories. Her classmates were assholes, but she got the same treatment from her cousins and it was brushed aside. At work now, mistakes happen. You remember who is strong or weak on your team and how, and you rely on them only as much as you can.

The forgiveness of others, well that was something else. She'd seen, in her teen years, how easily people could hold onto hurt and anger. Not pleasant memories, but lessons none the less.

Forgiveness is important to a lot of people.

She'll never forgive Tom for what he's done. Sam? She understands why he asked of her what he did. She remembers when he begged her forgiveness for what happened the night of the fire, and she'd given it. Her biological parents - her father, really, since her mother is dead – were fairly horrible people, it seems, and the small bit of info she's been able to find out about Compton without tripping any sort of alarms in the database at work, well…he's not a figure that's going to receive pardon from anyone, least of all her.

But Raymond Reddington is some outlier. He doesn't fit in any category she's already created for herself. She doesn't want to revisit what she realized in her room before. And she needs him. He's a link to her past, and she's indebted to him, and there are other reasons on that laundry list but really what it all comes down to is that one stray thought she'd had before when she was considering her options.

She never saw it coming, but he's all she has left.

Liz reminds herself that people do monstrous things for the people they care for. She was prepared to do exactly what Raymond ended up doing. She'd owed her life to Sam, in more ways than one, and had tried to convince herself that helping him would be pay that debt.

Head still back, and eyes still closed, Liz asks what she is dreading.

"Anything else? Is there anything else you've been keeping from me, like this?"

His answer is a rapid and adamant "No."

She has to swallow to be able to get the question out.

"If Tom wasn't about to break out – and I don't even know who I could trust to tell _that_ tipoff to – would you have told me?"

"I'd like to think that at some point, yes, I would, if I had the chance to."

The 'if' concerns her for a lot of reasons. There's an undercurrent to the energy tonight, something similar to the night of the ball, and she opens her eyes and has to ask the question.

"Did you think this might be your last chance to say that to me, before Tom beat you to it, or you didn't have the opportunity to? Did you come here to say goodbye?"

"If you want it to be," he begins, and she can tell he certainly doesn't want it from the tone of his voice, "it could be."

He's ignoring the second part of that. She cracks her eyes open and watches him resignedly for a moment.

She can't even imagine going back to 'normal'. There was never really normal before, and the idea of slipping into the numbness of her work routine, without this, without him, without the world he's reintroduced her to, is one she can't even fathom.

"Tonight is not going to be the end of this discussion," she promises him, and herself, with a strong look to accompany it. "It can't be."

With a deep exhale that seems to help clear her head slightly, she repositions herself to a more upright spot. She's well aware her reaction to the news he just gave her is completely atypical, and that what she's about to do is almost insane, but she's beyond the point of trying to compare herself to others, to a 'normal' that's never existed.

She stands, but makes him come to her with a small gesture.

He's done monstrous things. So has she. She'll probably do more and so shall he, but if they can be truthful with one another they might make it through all of this. They're both looking for the same people, for different reasons, but they need one another and it's going to be close to impossible if they continue to keep things from one another.

She extracts a promise for honesty from him as they stand clutching one another like a raft in a storm, fingers gripping one another harder than necessary; their voices are low and serious and private. Faces are pressed into necks and shoulders, digging in and down and hiding.

"I hate Christmas," she mutters into the material of his dark sweatshirt and he nods adamantly into her neck.

His phone buzzes and causes both of them to jump. They both leave salty wet patches on the other's skin and clothes when they pull away.

It's odd, watching him pull the phone out of his pocket, like it's perfectly normal for him to do so. She bites her lip as she watches him grimace and read the screen, standing before her in work boots and jeans and a day's worth of stubble. Years of connections and power built up and whoever this is who has a lead to his daughter's whereabouts, they are trying to strip him of it.

He slips it back into his pocket but she already knows he has to go from the guilty, reluctant look in his eyes.

"This is not how it was supposed to happen, Liz. None of this was," he tells her, and she wonders what he's referring to in particular, or if it's a more encompassing statement.

It's probably the latter, knowing him.

"Anything you need me to pass on to Dembe?" she asks, trying to put herself back together a little bit, stand a little straighter. She crosses her arms across her chest.

He passes his hand over the stubble of his hair – she notices now he looks a little thinner and squeezes her arms around herself a little more tightly to keep them in place.

"Nothing is urgent. He's with his family right now," he responds, almost reverent of his friend's current location. "Whatever you two are doing, it's working. I guess I'm more of a caricature in a suit and sunglasses than I thought. None of the people I'm interacting with right now appear to be aware of who I am or that I'm apparently in two places at the same time. According to my sources, my reputation appears to continue to remain nebulous and illicit…I ruined the marriage of a Spanish royal last week during a party on a yacht and then stole a trade route from the Sindikato."

"I'm not the first person to spread stories about where you are and what you've done," she points out.

For a second, the corner of his lip twitches upward, but his eyes grow serious and he presses his lips together.

"I wish I could go back and change so many things," he says, too quietly. Too seriously. "I'm sorry."

She takes a deep breath as she tries to think of something to say, but honestly, if he hadn't done what he did, she would have gone to Nebraska when that case was over, and Sam would have asked her to help him. She isn't sure she would have recovered from it.

They have to live with who they are and what they do.

"I know," she responds with a heavy exhale, feeling older and sadder and quieter than she did when she first entered her apartment a few hours ago. "I know."

It's Christmas, but it isn't. It's a goodbye, but it isn't.

When the man facing her cups the back of her neck, hand gentle, she ducks her head down to rest on his chest and he adapts, accepts it - has to understand it, really – and presses his lips to her hair.

It's nice. It's good.

It doesn't change things.

She pulls away after a moment and licks her lips. "Contact us when you can," she reminds him, and he nods. Part of her really wishes he was dressed in a suit and sunglasses and one of those damn hats, because that's 'Red' Reddington and it would be easier to be angry with that character. It would be easier to say 'goodbye' to him.

Instead she walks Raymond to her door.

Before he opens it, he turns back to her for a brief moment, regarding her.

"Be careful, Lizzie," he murmurs, brushing at the damp skin at the corner of her eye.

"You too," she whispers.

The door closes and Elizabeth Scott walks through her apartment and turns off the lights. There is the faint noise of festivity from the apartments surrounding hers, some drunken shouts from the street, but she's alone and it's quiet in her space. She prepares for sleep like she normally does, and it's only as she's pulling back her covers that she notices her closet door is ajar and the garment bag from the ball has been disturbed; the zipper isn't entirely closed.

She pushes back off of the mattress and pads over, opens it and inspects the dress. He's presumptuous, yes, but he respects her space, and probably only showered because he felt he needed to. He wouldn't go through her closet without reason.

She thinks.

The dress is still as beautiful as she remembered it to be – it feels like years, not weeks, since she wore it. Her fingers move across the fabric, sliding over the smooth panels and then reaching the lace and dark, purple red seed beads on the hips.

Liz starts to adjust the dress on its hanger when she notices the paper pinned in place. It's folded small, and anyone else going through her closet would probably not have noticed that the bag had been disturbed in the first place.

She unpins the paper and opens it, finding addresses, account numbers, names, and phone numbers written carefully and in small, tidy handwriting.

These are his new aliases. Most of the addresses are Eastern European, but there is one or two in other locations. Cambodia. Brazil.

He was letting her know where he'd be, for her own knowledge or to pass on, at her discretion. He knew he was going to tell her about Sam and he still gave it to her.

What she realized earlier comes back to her in a rush and leaves her feeling sick, feeling dizzy, feeling more than a little angry with herself.

Liz folds up the paper hastily and puts it back into the dress before packing everything away and slipping into bed to stare at the ceiling for longer than she'll care to admit.

(Elizabeth Scott is aware there's a lot she won't admit to, herself included.)


	13. Leave Me None of Your Wisdom

**A/N: Still don't own any of this. Rest assured, regardless of what season 2 reveals, this fic is au after 1x14 so it's gonna keep on trucking. **

**Chapter title taken from "Been Better," by Kyla La Grange.**

**Peace out homies. **

* * *

><p><strong>December 2013<strong>

**T**here are others, in their cement and steel bureaucratic world, who are lucky, who watered their cubicle plants on Monday or Tuesday before turning on an Out of Office message in their email account before strolling of their buildings, quite happily partaking in the age-old, overused joke of telling their coworkers they would see them until next year.

The Post Office does not have an HR department, so holiday schedules don't exist.

Everyone is bleary-eyed and back in the office on Thursday, the day after Christmas. In the elevator, somewhere behind her, someone tries to start up conversation and ask another agent how their Christmas went.

"Fuck off," is the clipped response from their peer. It seems to reflect the general mood for the day.

Liz isn't any closer to figuring out where she is, emotionally speaking, with her feelings on the news Raymond shared with her. In some ways, she is actually sort of happy to have something else to keep her occupied as she deals with the revelations of last night's conversation and her own thoughts, as well as the delightful knowledge her ex-husband would be busting out of his prison cell in the next few days.

She's in the sort of anxious, coiled mood that makes Donald Ressler's own jittery nerves worsen hers. It isn't until Meera pulls Liz to the break area and explains why that she finds out what's going on – good timing on the other woman's part, because the criminal profiler is a few seconds from snapping.

"He picked up the ring. Well, another one," she amends as she stirs her coffee and watches her partner from over Liz's shoulder.

There's something off in Meera's voice, like it's a little too forcefully unconcerned. She tamps down the surprise that wants to show on her face - clearly she's missed something over the last few months.

"He's proposing on New Year's but he said something to the Assistant Director earlier; Cooper told him he'd need to update his personnel file and he's panicking ever since."

Liz sips her coffee, giving an appreciative grimace when she tastes the bitterness. "She said 'yes' once, he's back in her family's good graces after Thanksgiving...what's wrong?"

Meera's gaze shifts to focuses on the woman facing her, coming to some realization that Liz hopes she'll share. "You didn't have to worry about his safety, when you signed with Tom...well you didn't think you had to."

Meera is right. She was just about to leave for the Academy when Tom proposed and her paperwork was a rushed affair, probably skipping more than a few typical approval processes because of the timing - something she realizes now was intentional on his part. Liz never considered her job would put her husband at risk. And it turns out she never really had to, not when her ex-spouse was some kind of secret assassin masquerading as a bumbling school teacher with Celiac disease.

"Fucking pancakes," Liz mutters under her breath.

"Come again?" the CIA agent's voice rises in pitch, more than slightly confused.

"Tom-related. Sorry," she's quick to respond, but even after they separate and she goes about her phone inquiries into their newest target, she can't help but think about it.

It's a strange thing, the moment it occurs to her. She's idly waiting for a database search to cough up results on a license plate for their newest potential target target, a woman they suspect is involved in an art forgery ring, and she's looking from her window out and around at her coworkers while still mulling over her conversation with Meera, when she comes to the bone-jarring conclusion that each and every one of them has a someone or a something that's exploitable.

She's no stranger to the intrusive thoughts of a thief. Criminal ones. It's just like Raymond said to her, so long ago and in a tone so damn smarmy. It's not that hard for her.

Meera is a mother. Ressler has Audrey. Aram has nothing else to fall back on if he wasn't here. They've got people and vulnerabilities and debts and secrets and it is so _easy_ to threaten to take those things from them.

They put an awe inspiring amount of faith in the humanity of others, don't they?

Doesn't she?

Her apartment is filled with practically nothing more than half-decent suits and fiberboard furniture. Her family was Sam, and he is dead, and the rest aren't tied to her on paper. She wouldn't piss on Tom if he was on fire. His attempt to shame and guilt her into parenthood was unsuccessful. She has fourteen years of a completely fabricated life in her file and a lifetime of hidden knowledge on how to lie, cheat, and steal.

Raymond Reddington isn't even on their radar, when it comes to her.

Air leaves her lungs in a dizzying rush even as she sits a little taller in her seat.

It's not like she planned it out, but a series of events have put her in an incredible place. The worst they can do to her is threaten _her_. Her reputation. Her money. Her freedom. Important things, yes, but more easily controlled by herself.

Everyone's afraid of losing something; that's what drives a lot of what people do, she thinks as she looks over the face of their perp staring back at her from her computer screen. People go to extreme lengths to protect what they care about.

Their newest target is Reina Santos. Came from a decent home, from what Elizabeth can discern from her research. An art degree from a school with a big price tag. Cars registered to her in her earlier life were high end, but began being replaced less frequently, and with more economical ones. Mother of two. Divorced. No sign of alimony. Child support unpaid for over a year. She finds medical bills for the woman's son that are unpaid.

Here is someone with something they hold very dear, finding it threatened: Her children need protection, and to do that, she needs money. The unfortunate catch in a situation like this is that once she has the money, whoever gave it to her undoubtedly knows what could be used to threaten her into continued assistance with art forgery.

She shares this information with Ressler who shrugs. "She's still part of a multi-million dollar art forgery scheme."

The comment irks her, and Liz trains her eyes on her computer screen as she asks "We're going to offer this woman a chance to help us, right?"

"She's got kids, Scott," he reminds her. "People with families aren't always receptive to the idea of ratting out people who could hurt their loved ones."

So they offer plea bargains to men like The Courier but not to people like Reina? Liz feels frustration crawl under her skin and flicker in her gut. There's a question on the tip of her tongue - _'If Reina was a man, would you offer her a chance?'_ - but she doesn't voice it, trying to avoid a fight.

Children are easy to threaten. The things that Lizzie holds dear really aren't, and to threaten those things, they'd have to catch her first.

Even as her work day continues, Liz decides its time to take some preventative measures for her own safety. Time to move some money around, time to check on a few of the financial boltholes her Dad had established. She wonders if it's safe to touch some of the ones from before the fire, if they're even still there...she'll have to check over that in her father's notebook. Storage facilities are a dime a dozen in the area and she can quickly move around things if she needs to this weekend. Mr. Kaplan might be able to recommend a good one.

Liz leaves work and her attempt to succumb to a cheeseburger craving, the specific taste of a Shake Shack Burger to be exact, has her sitting in traffic on Constitution Ave with a fairly unfettered view of the White House on one side and the lit scaffolds of the Washington Monument on the other. Tourists in sneakers and ski coats intermingle with fewer business-dressed people than normal, given the holiday week.

The city is so much more complicated than she thought it was before she moved here. It's not as selfless as she imagined it would be. It's messy.

It takes a lot to keep DC looking the way it does, she realizes. To keep it running smoothly, at least on the surface. It takes scaffolding and groundskeepers and security.

She snorts as she thinks of the last word. Security. The only reason she has her job right now is because someone somewhere above her thought working with the Concierge of Crime would be good for national _security_. And they secured _him_, or tried to, and tried to give him what he demanded, rushed into her life with lights and sirens and a fucking helicopter. She wonders, sometimes, how things would have played out if she refused to do as they asked that day. If that pricking in her thumbs of academic and personal curiosity hadn't been so damn hard to ignore.

Liz knows there never really was a choice on her part. If she had not agreed, 'they', that incredibly nebulous, faceless group of politically powerful people hidden here in DC who Cooper and the rest of her superiors take direct and indirect orders from, probably would have taken a more forceful approach. Her personal freedoms are of little consequence when weighed against the security of others. Keeping people safe was more important, and 'they' had to do that by keeping Red happy because he knew so much. Too much.

And 'they' are human, only human, guided by the same base fears and wants that the criminals she works to catch every day are also driven by. Liz wonders if any of them know who she really is. Wonders if Compton holds anything against any of them. Wonders what they would do to keep their family and treasured secrets safe.

They'd probably keep her _secure_ until they needed her, like Raymond had originally planned. Be extra careful with her. They'd do anything to take care of their own.

She knows who has said those exact words to her.

It's like a bucket of cold water dumped on her inside and out, and she realizes she's holding up traffic at a green light only when she recognizes the honking horns are directed at her.

Liz thought they were keeping her on the team to appease Reddington, but what if there was another motive?

Returning to work the next day feels like walking into a cage, and the feeling only increases as she steps into her office space, that tiny box removed from everyone else. Paranoia tints every interaction and as she accompanies Ressler to question members of the art museum, leaving their reasoning for their visit vague, she notes that anyone could go with him and serve in her place. She's not even questioning anyone, not after her most recent behavior with the perp she attacked.

So why send her?

Reina pales and sweats her way through Ressler's conversation with her, and it's easy for Liz to see the unspoken plea in the woman's eyes. She wants out. She wants help. They flashed badges when they entered and if the people who she's working for find out, it could mean trouble.

Her decision is made when they start to drive around the block and she spots Reina behind some fencing, huddled in the corner of an employee smoking area, shaking hands holding open a wallet, fingers petting matted plastic and the smiling faces in school photos beneath it.

The FBI agent's stomach twists in knots and the words push out of her mouth against her own volition just as they're pulling into the garage at the Post Office.

"We shouldn't be doing this to her," she declares. "We've got to offer her a plea bargain. Witpro. Tonight."

Ressler's mouth opens, then closes firmly as he decides against his initial response, before opening again to firmly say, "She shouldn't be doing this to her family."

That hits a raw nerve. "You have no idea. You don't know what she's going through."

She's never seen the man's eyebrows shoot upward so quickly. "Scott, this isn't your call. I mean, I don't even know why Cooper assigned you to come with me today."

"Babysitting," she mutters as she opens her car door, but his hearing is better than she considered and it sparks something in his already tense temper.

"Say that again."

"Nothing," she snaps, slamming the car door and walking towards the elevator.

"No, no, I want to hear this. What do you mean by that?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Liz says, and it's partially to reaffirm the statement for herself. She channels her frustration into her steps, into the steady pump of her legs across the place.

Donald Ressler follows after her. "You've been off since Red disappeared. You come in looking like you have a lifetime membership to Fight Club and you're fucking hostile. Is this something related to Reddington?"

Liz whirls on him in the elevator, barely letting herself react to the mention of the man's name. "Of everything that's happened in the last few months to me, in my life, _that's_ the first thing you go to?"

"He vanished and you've been hostile ever since."

Liz throws her arms up, and the man takes a half step back. "If that's the reason that makes you happy, that's great Donald. Stick with that one.

"I'm not the only one in this elevator that's been walking around with a stick up their ass recently, and honestly, I just don't have the time or care to clarify things for you. You're right. I shouldn't have gone today."

Liz stalks out of the lift as soon as the doors start to open, pushing through them in her haste to put space between her and the other agent. She continues walking, ignoring his calls after her, and keeps walking until she finds an abandoned, silent corner of the Post Office - the auto mail sorter area - and leans against metal with her eyes closed in the cramped space.

She needs to get a grip, keep a level head, and act wisely. When her emotions get the better of her, that's when people and items get hurt, and she can't afford that kind of mistake at work.

Liz doesn't even know if Cooper is actually aware of her biological father, or half of her history. There's no reason to jump to incredible conclusions, or to lash out at coworkers simply doing their job.

For now, she can only take a deep breath, let herself slip back into the role of FBI Agent Elizabeth Scott, and leave the rest for her time off.

"I should apologize," comes a quiet voice, tentatively, in the dark, and Liz turns. Her eyes have adjusted in the small space, and she easily makes out Ressler approaching her.

"Same," she agrees with a nod of her head. He's squinting, and she knows he can't make out her face as well, so she allows her contrition to color her voice. "I was entirely unprofessional back there and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

He looks down sheepishly as he leans against machinery opposite her, hands jammed into his pockets. "Meera just confirmed that you're right, I have been walking around with a stick up my ass."

The smile that twitches on her lips is lost to him. "I don't recall specifically saying _you_ were suffering from that ailment."

"See that? That's probably why Reddington kept insisting on working with you. You could play right along."

There's an echoing noise when Liz lets her head tip back and her plastic hair clip hits metal behind her, but she doesn't respond. He's right though. Raymond gets on her nerves, but they both delight in their repartee. Her chest hurts a little more than it has been, and she realizes she's missing him, and has been for some time.

"I just...I know you feel the need to play by the book, or as close to it as possible, but Ressler, we're literally standing in the middle of a government site that doesn't exist on paper."

If she says more, it's going to sound like a lecture, and so she leaves it at that. Taking a deep breath, she arranges her features into something lighter, and taps the edge of his shoe with her own.

"I have it on good authority you're proposing on New Year's," she says, but leaves a hint of a question in it.

"Y-yeah," he exhales heavily, and there's some embarrassment in the move. "Taking a second go at it."

"You'll be fine. You know she's going to say yes. Consider that first time a dry run."

He snorts, and it's the closest to informal as she's really ever seen him. "Okay," he answers, but it's disbelieving. He straightens and runs a hand over his hair before turning back towards the light. "Come on, we have work to do."

"Coming," she says.

It takes her a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the extreme light of the main hallway.

She waits a while before she excuses herself from her office, and finds an abandoned stairwell near the Box that allows her privacy, real privacy.

Dembe picks up immediately. He doesn't say her name, and he doesn't give his in greeting.

"Hey. We need to make someone disappear," she tells him quietly before giving him the details.

Liz finds it easier than it should be to return to her desk, to the space she shares with one of the most upstanding FBI agents she's ever met, and continues her work.

She shuffles through some of the work on her desk before looking up at him, smiling. "So let's hear those ring stats."

It's a late night, but when Liz leaves, she thinks she's done a good day's work. If anyone is on to her actions, it's well hidden. Nervous energy is still humming through her veins, so she transfers her hard drive to a new locker, but decides she's not going to touch the bank account in Ferndale. That money's been sitting there from before the fire, and she simply doesn't know how much was discovered, or known by whoever came after them that night.

More and more, she wonders just how close she came to being taken back by her father the night of the fire.

Dembe texts her on the burner phone of the week to confirm everything. She thanks him, and asks him to pass on the message of appreciation to everyone involved.

When she gets out of the shower, she find there's a new text waiting for her.

_Subject wants to thank YOU_

She doesn't get much sleep before Spencer is calling her, apologizing for waking her up, but informing her she needs to be at the Post Office ASAP, and she already knows what is going on.

The search for Reina goes on for days, but there isn't a single trace of her left. Her children are gone and her bank accounts are wiped. Liz takes part in the search, but she's asked to do mostly phone follow up in the office and it doesn't help her growing sense of claustrophobia.

New Year's Eve arrives before she knows it, and she joins a small group of coworkers at a dive bar close enough to Pennsylvania Avenue that a group like theirs in wrinkled suits and generic haircuts are the norm and there are no questions asked.

Aram, as always, gets hammered. She's too nervous to have more than one drink, nursing a flat and watery coke the rest of their time together, knowing that she and Raymond discussed the possibility that Tom would try to break out soon, and well, fireworks and gaiety like tonight's are the perfect cover.

The ball drops and she's standing near Yancy, a forensic accountant, and she gives the woman a peck on the cheek. Aram kisses Meera on the nose.

He's barely awake soon after, so Liz quickly volunteers to take him back to his apartment. It's not too far away, and the snow is only starting to fall, so after she makes sure he's settled for the night, bucket and water bottle already at the bedside for the morning, she makes her way back to her apartment.

When she spies Aram's coat and his ID half sticking out of a pocket, she grabs the security badge but leaves the coat, trying to will herself into thinking tomorrow will be normal, that she'll just get up and drive to Aram's pick him up for a massive breakfast, and her worrying tonight wil have been for nothing.

As she's walking from her car to the stairs, she gets that feeling, that hairs-on-the-back-of-the-neck-lifting feeling, like someone is watching her, and as soon as she's on the second floor walkway, she hesitates, as if looking for her keys, and tries to quickly scan the parking lot with her head down. She's lived in the complex long enough to recognize most of the cars that frequent it - some are gone tonight, and yes, there are some new ones thanks to several loud and raucous parties going on, but it's the car in the back corner of the lot, a barely lit area, that catches her eye. There's a plastic garbage bag taped on the back window, a sight not seen in this pricey of a building where people just call AAA and get them repaired. The car is older, and cheaper than most of the others in the lot as well.

Snow under the car - it's only just pulled in ahead of her.

As she puts the key in the door, her eyes drop to the small spatter of red on the white cement at her feet, and see that there's a trail in the opposites direction, and her heart rate accelerates.

Liz makes short work of entering the apartment and locking the door behind her, flicking on every light she can as she goes, gun drawn, to inspect her apartment. No blood anywhere, no sign of forced entry. The windows and the balcony are still shut tight, and her security system is still intact.

She considers calling Dembe, then work, and then decides against both. If Tom broke out tonight, they would have let her know, right?

The fact that her own mind does not supply an immediate 'yes' tells her a lot about her own trust in her government and coworkers. Dembe already sent her a _be careful _text earlier.

There won't be sleep tonight, she knows, not with how jumpy she is. Not with how loud the apartment building is and will be into the early hours of morning.

So she remains dressed, and after brewing a cup of coffee and downing it, she forces herself to casually turn off all of lights, and she waits.

It's another hour before she hears the ever-so-quiet sound of metal on metal from the foyer area of her apartment. If he's doing that, she knows her security system is already compromised. As silently as she can, she moves to her bedroom doorway and ducks down, a spot that will allow her an easy view of the front door, just around the side of a bookshelf, but also gives her quick access to a barrier - the door, and then the dresser beside it could be pushed in the way as well if she needed it. Everything important to her is hidden in her bedroom and she's got the window as an emergency escape if she needs it.

The FBI agent doesn't want to run away from him, though. She'd rather confront him.

He knows more than she does about herself, or at least someone suspected they knew more about her. She'd really love some answers.

Before long the door is gingerly opened, and the TV that's on in her bedroom seems to supply the intruder some sense of assurance his entry isn't detected.

_Asshole_, she thinks. He knows she went to sleep with it on - hasn't in a while, but he wouldn't know that - and that it takes her about forty minutes to fall asleep on a normal night. Tom waited to attempt entry based off of her routine from their married life.

There's a ticking noise - it's actually dripping. The blood. He must have been injured in his escape attempt.

"Lizzie," he calls out in the dark, gun aimed at her. There's a silencer attached - how funny, they match - but she can't make out much more than that. There's no gleam from a pair of glasses, though. She sees that.

Now that her hiding spot is discovered, she slowly stands. She keeps her gun trained on him.

"No 'Honey, I'm home'?" she quips, while trying to calm her racing, raging heart.

"I'm not a Bond Villian, Lizzie." His gun is lowered, not that it makes much of a difference for her anxiety level. "And I don't want to hurt you."

"Are you going to tell me who sent you?" she asks, trying to keep her voice even.

He takes a half step closer, materializing a little more out of the shadows by her door. "People a whole lot meaner than you asked me that same question and got nothing."

"No break for your wife?"

It's too dark to see his expression, but she knows what disbelief looks like on his face - well on Tom Keen's face: eyebrows skittering upward over thick framed glasses. This man, she's not sure.

"I think you mean 'ex-wife'," he reminds her, voice clipped.

Is he frustrated? Upset?

The quick, disbelieving laugh escapes past her lips before she can stop it.

"Are you seriously upset about that?" Her voice rises in pitch.

When he responds, he uses that tone he used throughout their marriage, the one that grated on her nerves as he lectured her, guilted her. "You should have given me a chance to-"

"-Step to the left. You're bleeding on my rug." Her chilly demand seems to freeze the air between them.

"This could go a lot easier on us both if you just came with me."

"That never worked out for you before, and it won't now," she tells him, voice low. "Let's try this again: Who do you work for?"

Anger towards the man facing her has been simmering beneath her skin for so long. If one of them doesn't make a move soon, her hand is going to start to shake.

"There's a couple of answers to that. It's a little more complicated than you think, Lizzie."

Maybe it's the nickname. Maybe it's her lack of patience. Or maybe it's her slipping control on her anger.

Liz exhales heavily through her nose and shoots twice.

There's a grunt and a body-heavy_ thud_, but she still ducks behind the bedroom doorway a half second after she blindly pushes on the wall in the vacinity of the lightswitch in the living room.

After a moment where there's no return fire, and only the sound of heavy breathing by the door, she risks a look.

He's slumped in the shadowy space of the foyer. Her cautious aproach, with her gun drawn, is watched by the man she knows as Tom Keen, but he's too busy trying to apply pressure with his own hand, uselessly, to the nastier of the two wounds at his side.

It's nearly he same place he was stabbed by Zumani, she notices. Irony smells like copper and sweat.

She kicked the gun away from him and stands over him, feeling removed from the scene before her.

He was already injured when he entered her apartment. He's got a thick black jacket on, a lot like the kind that Post Office security wears, and there's a slick spot and hole in the sleeve. He's got the sort of haggard beard that graces men in lockup without access to a razor.

He looks nothing like Tom Keen, and it makes it easier for her.

He's rapidly paling, starting to twitch erratically, and she has to wonder just how much blood he lost before he got to her apartment.

"Doesn't matter," he gets out, between involuntary spasms. "They know. They're coming."

"Who? she asks, knowing she's not likely to get an answer.

"B-both are. Told th-them about you. Waiting to see the bigger bidder."

She squats, starting to go through the jacket pockets, easily pushing his hand away from her wrist when he claws at it.

There's car keys, and a security ID belonging to Jason Greenburg. He has - had - a family and an adopted dog with only three legs, but his son is a genius and had made a little sling with a wheel to help balance out the small dog, almost the same size as Hudson, and he was so proud, so happy, so excited to show her that picture. He showed everyone.

And now's he's more than likely dead with a family starting the new year without a father.

Police will be coming - she's got neighbors on every side and she can't imagine they'd attribute the gunshots to fireworks at 4 am. She has a very small window of time to decide what she's going to do. They're probably aware of Tom's escape and there is no doubt in her mind that a van full of SWAT members are coming to _secure_ her. Whoever Tom's called, they're on their way as well.

She tucks his gun into the waistband of her pants before continuing to search through the coat pockets, and looks at him. He's going into shock, and it's getting harder for him to get his words out through chattering teeth.

"H-he-he killed Sam. Red. Red killed Sam."

She stops and watches him, watches the expression on his face to see if he's trying to gloat about the knowledge, and the small smile that struggles to stay in place on his lips. Bile rises in her throat, but she fights to keep her face impassive.

His own face crumples into confusion. "Did you h-h-hear me? Red-"

"-I heard you. It's just that I already knew that," she pauses for a second, considering if she should voice the next statement out loud to the dying man, because it's something she's been coming to terms with internally over the last few days.

Fuck it, she thinks.

"He's probably going to kill my biological father by the time this is through."

He watches her and she starts to feel her cool facade start to slip, and fights against it, forcing her way through her next words.

"You never really knew me, Tom," she tells him firmly, and stands to walk away.

Liz feels like she's going to be sick. Or cry...perhaps not, since she's done so much of it recently. She wants to call Raymond. Maybe Dembe. Maybe even Mr. Kaplan.

She can't do any of those things until she's safe and assessed the situation.

It occurs to her that while she has the choice to stay, to be found by the agents inevitably en route, with her ex-husband's bullet-ridden body and maybe a few good manufactured tears, her knee-jerk, survival instinct is telling her to _bolt_, and she's listening.

Her legs have already carried her into her bedroom.

Liz pushes the mattress off of the Ikea frame with her foot and quickly moves the support slats out of her way to grab the duffle laying below. A wide sweep of her arm fills it with the contents hiding beside it, and she pulls the phone off of it's charger in the concealed wall outlet under the bed frame and throws that in as well.

In minutes, she has everything important thrown into the bag, and before she decides her exit, she pauses to listen for the man's breathing. She can't hear it. She also hasn't had any neighbors knocking on her door, nor is there a scared silence thickening the apartment complex air, as best as she can tell.

It's difficult, what with Pitbull blasting in the apartment below.

Maybe, if she was a better person, she would have wanted stay with Tom while he died Made sure he wasn't alone.

She's not though.

The duffel is slung over her back and it's heavy there, appropriately so, for all that it means, and she only to grab a few things out of her purse before she goes. Added to the contents are the notes from Raymond and a photo of Dembe's nieces from their Christmas card. She grabs Aram's ID as well.

The front door is out of the question. The panel in her closet that opens up into the shared attic space is hard to get to in a short amount of time.

The balcony it is, once she bundles up.

She hesitates for a moment, fingers on the handle to the sliding glass door.

This is it. If she runs now, she'll always be running, at least until she gain her own security - knowledge, power, strength, whatever it is that's going to keep her out of Compton's grasp... and out of law enforcement's hands.

She's been playing at normal long enough. It's time to move on.

Liz pulls back the door with a little more effort than necessary.


	14. Hollow Talking and Hollow Girl

**A/N: Don't own, or that wouldn't have been a dream sequence…**

**Chapter title from the song "Hollow Talk" by Choir of Young Believers.**

* * *

><p><strong>January 2014<strong>

**I**t's still hazy predawn when Liz drives her vehicle through the security checkpoint. Heart pounding wildly in her chest, she waits for her credentials to clear in the business park's security system with a sunny smile, praying that bureaucratic oversight is on her side.

This offsite, hidden building is where case files go to die; Red Reddington's files being transferred to this site two weeks ago was a sign of just how finished they were with their bargain with him. She's only been inside the building once before, when she was looking for evidence on the Angel Hotel case and she was able to get to the box moments before her lack of clearance was discovered.

Since then, and partially because of her, the security system has been upgraded. There's no entry to the fake security systems company without getting cleared with an ID at the complex entrance, and then swiping with an actual FBI security pass at the office doors.

This is stupid and risky but this is her last chance to have access to this info, and she's got to try. After this, she's running.

It's been thirty minutes since she left her apartment, well aware she was never returning. She managed not to injure herself when she jumped from her balcony into the neighbor's snow covered bushes in their tiny enclosed backyard, and then she took off, boosting a car at the bar two blocks away. Liz made one pit stop a few blocks away from the business park, and now she's here.

The guard, bleary-eyed from a long overnight shift, waves her through after her ID clears. She imagines her actual security clearance was flagged the second Tom escaped; Jason Greenburg's no doubt was flagged as well.

Liz parks the car and looks down at the piece of plastic in her gloved hand; her palm is sweaty under the leather.

Agents assigned to work security at this site are older, or just have too many complaints in their records against them to keep them around others. It's quiet, and most of them spend their shift playing Candy Crush or watching sports.

Liz shoulders the shopping tote she found in the back of the stolen car, swipes Aram's card, and greets the dozing agent at the reception desk with as little enthusiasm as possible.

He wakes with a start, but she waves at him, holding up Aram's ID between two fingers in a casual gesture that shows him the thin edge of the plastic and not the photo of a man she clearly isn't. "Totally understand, man," she assures him, then rolls her eyes with what she hopes is a conspiratory grin. She continues in a generous tone, "Get some coffee, and when I come back out, we can log it out when we're both a little more awake."

He makes a noise that might be an appreciative response, and he heads off in search of caffeine.

Behind the little waiting room is another door with swipe access. Now that the agent is gone from the desk where the profile tied to the ID will flash on his computer screen, Liz swipes Aram's card and lets out a deep breath. She has Raymond's case file number memorized, and is quickly able to head down the right aisle and locate the boxes, yanking them to the floor and flipping their contents out onto the ground. There are some flash drives in the box, which she quickly puts in her jacket pocket before continuing on.

Of course it's too much for the shopping tote. Evidence baggies from bullet casings and other items are immediately ruled out - the focus turns to the pages of dot matrix paper and newer reports. As quickly as she can, she flips through the info and attempts to triage the information, yanking what she can immediately identify as important paperwork.

Why is she even doing this? Half of this could be falsified, she realizes, but continues on.

A quick glance at her watch shows that it's been eight minutes since she badged through the first door. Wishing she could grab it all, but knowing it's not possible, she pulls out her gun, hoists the bag on her shoulder, and keeps the weapon low at her side and risks a glance out the door.

The agent is only just returning to his seat, but that's putting him far too close to her exit for her comfort. She gives him a toothy smile.

"Any chance you could grab me a cup? I'm trying to make sense of what they want me to pull, but I've been up so long, I can barely read this list."

There is a second where she thinks he's going to refuse her, but he puts his own cup down and nods. She's a fellow graveyard shift sufferer, in his eyes, and unlike some of the agents who get sent to retrieve files from this site, she's not reprimanding him for quite literally sleeping on the job.

The second he's out of sight, she bolts for the door and the car. She gets nervous at the exit, but the gate is simply a slow automatic one. She guns it as quickly as she can out of the area, abandons the car, and doubles back on foot.

Liz returns to the spot where she stowed her duffel and ski coat behind a donation bin in the barren wasteland of a craft store parking lot. She hears sirens but keeps moving.

A new coat is pulled on, bulky and figure-concealing. A knit cap is pulled from a pocket and gets jammed on her head. The backpack inside the duffel gets pulled out, and she dumps the contents of the shopping tote, the coat, and duffel into it. A pair of glasses with big, thick frames are slipped on as well, and she hopes that the unflattering lenses will help prevent her from being instantly recognizable. They sit awkwardly on her face, but they might be enough to keep a computer scan of surveillance footage from immediately identifying her. The duffel disappears into the donation bin with a loud _clang_.

It's on foot from here, at least for now. Time to cover her tracks, or at least distract anyone trying to determine where she's headed. She trudges along to the Metro entrance, hunched down, and she joins the few other passengers waiting for a train. It's still early, and no one is really awake; most of the others on the train are hungover. Police on transit duty pay her no attention.

She gets off at Foggy Bottom and ducks into the 7-11 to buy two prepaid phones with cash. Her addition of an energy drink and a bag of Combos seems to keep the purchase from seeming too suspicious to the clerk, but honestly, she's fairly certain he sees shadier shit from recognizable politicians in the store.

They're actively looking for her now, she's sure of it. Liz hopes they realize Aram wasn't assisting her, because this is exactly the sort of thing she didn't want to happen to him. For a brief instant, despair over a lack of total control twists in her gut, but she presses on.

She grabs one of the burner phones, switches it to silent mode, and dials its number with her work cell. It gets left behind, tucked under a seat as discreetly as she can. She transfers to another line and leaves the work phone on that line, heading in the opposite direction.

Half of this is acting confident, not hesitating as she goes. She walks, swaddled and shapeless, with purpose from one Metro station and into another, programming her personal phone to forward the expected calls to the second burner phone, and then drops her cell in a trashcan. It will serve as a short distraction, but it might buy her time and help her leave DC.

The burner phone rings as she ascends an escalator, emerging into the bone white light of DC on a winter morning, and she squints a little as she plugs the mic'd headphones in before answering, but it gives her eyes time to adjust.

She accepts the call as she jaywalks to the other side of the street to keep from passing too closely to a traffic cam.

"Agent Scott, we need to talk." Harold Cooper's voice is firm, carefully authoritative. It's also slow, as he tries to allow agents the time needed to trace the call.

She tries to keep her own voice steady as she walks. "Aram probably isn't even aware I had his ID - he left his jacket in my car last night."

"He's aware now," is Cooper's clipped, wry response, and it turns her stomach. She repeats that Aram didn't know, but the Assistant Director continues to speak. "We just found Tom Keen's body in your apartment. Tell us where you are and we'll have a team to you in five."

And here it is, the moment she confirms her superior's fears. "Not a possibility sir," she says, with as little emotion as possible.

After a second of hesitation, and it's almost as if she can _see_ him wincing at what he has to do, he continues. "Agent Keen," he says, more firmly. "I'm ordering you to return to the Post Office."

She hears it in the background, thanks to the headphones in. There are others wherever he is, and she hears a sharply barked demand by a man she doesn't recognize, distant, to bring her in. She's heard it on CSPAN, she doesn't know the name but she knows it comes with a military uniform. Cooper might be concerned about her, or pretending to be, but whoever else is there isn't.

_We take care of our own_.

She hangs up, tosses the phone and keeps walking, feeling her heart rate speed up. She hails a taxi and gets dropped off at a shopping mall just outside of DC, assuring the driver she just wants to be there early for a sale.

They pass a cop running his lights along the way, racing past in the opposite direction, but he's pulling over a speeding car.

Elizabeth Keen's exit from her life is fairly quiet, all things considered.

There are a few cars in the parking lot, and she finds an older model to steal; it takes some time, with frozen and shaken fingers, but she manages to get in and kill the antiquated alarm system after only two chirps. It's harder to track the older, computerless models, she knows from all of her work hunting Blacklisters.

And then she drives. She drives and keeps driving. Stops in the parking lot of a demolished building, flings open the door, hunches over, and the energy drink and Combos come back up. Scoops up a handful of clean looking snow to finally get the aftertaste out of her mouth. She pulls over in Taneytown. Ditches the car on the side of the road. Trudges to the tiny Greyhound Station. Keeps her hood up as she buys her ticket to State College in Pennsylvania, and spends the duration of the ride there feeling wired and exhausted.

Hours and hours turn into two days of driving and then more traveling and trying but failing to sleep in cheap motels.

She allows instinct to navigate, and lands in a tiny town in New Foundland, on the chilly bay.

In the small, two story cottage with its wood heater and big windows letting her see all of her surroundings, she waits and watches for days, feeling coiled and ready to spring at the first sign of trouble, but finds there's nothing. She buys motion-activated floodlights at the town's hardware store. She tells the owner she's a writer, only staying for a little while, stresses again that she's here for time alone, and it's enough to abort the attempted Welcome Wagon from a few of her neighbors down the road.

Lights installed, gun under the pillow beside her, she sleeps like the dead for almost an entire day, and decided that she needs to be smarter about her actions. If she got this far without someone following her or hunting her, it's more thanks to luck than skill.

Or maybe they're waiting to see who she is going to make contact with. She doesn't know. Doesn't want to find out.

Dembe and Raymond are a phone call away. And doesn't Compton think Reddington has her under lock and key, or at least his own surveillance? She'll have her father's organization, as well as her former coworkers coming after her now; it makes a hell of a lot of sense for her to accept Red's protection.

But before she makes contact with Dembe or Raymond, she wants to go through the info she grabbed. There's a decent chance there is some info about herself in there, and with the only man who definitely knows something about her past tied up in his own problems, she needs to find what she can on her own, unfiltered and unbiased.

And it's not entirely unforeseeable at some point in her burgeoning and shapeless future, even if she trusts Raymond, that she might need this info to guard herself...from him.

Liz orders pizza from the only place in town that makes it, and cracks open a beer. Once the pizza arrives and after she grimaces her way through the first bite - no one makes pizza like they do in New York - she takes out a new notebook she purchased at the tiny stationery store. The hard drive had been wrapped in the few articles of clothing she'd brought with her, and it's survived well. Purchasing a new laptop to plug it into was a harder process, since the closest store she could make such a purchase and pay in cash was a day's drive away, but she made it. No internet needed for her work, thankfully.

Last, she walks over to the staircase and pries off a wood panel and pulls out the backpack filled with the stolen files. Liz falls back onto the cheap worn sofa and dumps the bag's contents onto the coffee table.

There are a few older reports from the Gatz project, printed out and black and white in his file. Shreds from dot matrix paper fall onto the floor. There's a photo of him in Kuwait, lifted from surveillance footage after the fact, but not much else about the incident there - no mention even of his wife. She takes a break from her work for another beer and a slice of pizza, folded so the grease can drip onto the paper towel on her plate. She leans against the pumpkin orange formica counter, listens to the hum of the halogen lightbulb in the overhead light, and chews her way through the slice mechanically.

The beer and a glass of water are in her hands once she washes her hands and returns to the work.

It's late, but the burner phone is sitting in front of her at the edge of the coffee table, an alarm set to buzz when it's time to get a little sleep.

She's not going to make the same mistakes this time, not when there isn't much she can gain from the files. Once she's finished looking through them, she decides she'll turn them over to Raymond, so at least he can know exactly what they have on him in his file.

The phone's going to buzz in the next few minutes, so she hastens along, trying to find some shred of evidence that makes this theft worth _something_.

And then she finds it and she wishes she hadn't.

It's been sandwich into a faded military green hanging folder, stuffed with yellowed older pages. It probably wasn't even pulled out when they unboxed everything in the Post Office. The manilla folder is older, browned around the edges, and there's rust where the paperclip has been sitting against the material. She's seen a lot of autopsy reports before; they don't turn her stomach anymore.

It's the picture on the inside that has her covering her mouth to stifle her sudden hoarse intake of breath.

In all of her work, she's hasn't seen many photos of his wife or daughter, but looking down at the face of the little girl in the photo, it's unmistakable who her father is. She's got his mouth. His chin.

She doesn't know the little girl's eye color is the same until she looks at the typewritten report on the next page. The sheen of the examination table and the pallor of her skin makes Liz's eyes blur with tears.

The cause of death was determined to be asphyxia. Signs of struggle, bits of skin and hair from underneath her nails. The pelvic exam - and even seeing the word on the page makes her feel ill - is negative for evidence of assault. Tell-tale signs of suffocation. Smothering, really - traces of cotton fibers in the mouth, on the teeth and tongue. The Medical Examiner signing off on the report is from a town about two hours away from the location of the safe house in Pennsylvania. The report is dated a few days after Christmas in 1990.

How has this been sitting in the files all of these years and not been picked up? Is it even real?

She flips through the pages looking for some sign of forgery but finds nothing obvious and falls back onto the couch with the file in her hands, feeling exhausted.

The stamp on the front gets her attention as the alarm starts to go off on her phone. She rarely came across the stamp before she started working at the Post Office - older files were stamped, marked by hand with the case number, and then scanned and tagged with the case in the system. She should have come across the file before, or someone else should have, if it had been above her clearance.

Ressler has much higher clearance and had poured over every shred of evidence during his time hunting Red, and he'd never been sure of what happened to Ellen and their daughter.

She notices it, then: the handwritten case number is wrong.

She flips open the file and looks at the top of the report and sees that the handwritten number matches the typed one the file was originally given, and it has a pair of digits inverted in it.

If it's real it means Raymond's had his hopes set on nothing.

Urgency has her fumbling to silence the alarm and then dial one of the numbers from the scrap of paper he'd left in her dress, long since memorized.

The voice on the other end of the line is cool, with a hint of a Russian accent as it tells her the name of a hotel she doubts even exists. She asks for the name from the slip of paper that had been on the same line as the number, and the man apologizes insincerely and tells her he's not in.

"Can you...may I leave a message for him?" she pauses and licks her lips, casting in her mind for a name that would mean something to him, prove it's her. "Tell him Bess Hardeen is looking for him at this number."

It's stupid, so stupid and rash, and if this identity has already been blown, she's probably got people coming after her.

Two days pass, and there's no response. She goes through the rest of the box and finds nothing of any real importance. There are a few photos of Raymond Reddington in younger years, even one from his high school graduation, and she tucks it away with the Christmas card from Dembe's family. She considers pulling out the little black book that had belonged to Sam, but doesn't want to involve the people whose name are contained in it. With where she stands right now, she'd only be using them as a shield.

The phone rings on day three, just as she's getting out of the shower and considering packing up and leaving.

"Are you alright?"

Hearing his voice does nothing for her frayed nerves. "Y-yeah. I need to - I ran, Raymond. I ran and I need to show you something and-"

"Where are you?"

She gives him the address of the train station twenty minutes away, and promises to meet him there in two day's time.

He's knocking at her door in less than 24 hours, his snow coat and jeans are soaked and while his face remains passive, the instant she opens the door his eyes are quickly looking her over.

"You sounded upset on the phone," he explains tersely before she can even ask him why he's there early, only slightly perturbed he's at her rented residence without her giving him its address. He moves past her, close enough she should smell his aftershave but doesn't, and while she locks the door shut, he's sweeping through the first floor of the house.

"And how are you-"

"-The place is removed from town, on an elevation. You'd see anyone coming before they got here. The gravel would help. You probably chose it for the view, too." He returns to where she stands in the foyer, barefoot and in the sweats she wears as pajamas. He does his best to encroach her space, to stare her down. "You need to tell me what's wrong, Lizzie."

"Stop it," she demands, anger prickling and damn it, this wasn't what she wanted.

"Then stop worrying me," he counters, with barely veiled anger, and she doesn't think the anger is aimed at herself. Hopes it isn't. He's so close she can feel the wintery chill from his skin.

There's a tension between them, and she holds her breath as she refuses to back down from his glare, returning it with one of her own. Counts to ten and lets it go, and he seems to do the same with some reluctance.

As calmly as she can, she tells him "Tom showed up at my apartment...I killed him. I ran, but not until I stole what intel I could on your case...I wouldn't even know where to start to find files on Compton. Cooper probably has my coworkers working overtime to find me right now...but you know all that."

"I haven't been able to check in with my DC contacts," he tells her. "I didn't."

The remark is quick, but not lost on her. The fact that he allows her to see him as a man and not some cartoonish super villain is still novel, though.

"Do you want to go back?" he asks her, watching her face, and she knows he's looking for regret; she doesn't even have to try to mask any. "I could - we could arrange it…"

She shakes her head furiously when he trails off. "No. That's not why I called. I - it's over. That's over."

And it is. The last few days have been tense but she's been so numb, still grieving, in some ways.

The shadows under his eyes are worse. There's something about his face, drawn and thinner than she remembers, that causes an ache in her chest. She doesn't think about it before she reaches to touch the skin of his cheek and his eyes close.

"Lizzie." Her name escapes his lips in a quiet breath, like she isn't supposed to hear it.

It breaks the barrier that's been between them, and they both seem to move into the space they'd intentionally left empty. He holds her close, twisting his head to place a kiss in her hand before pressing his lips against hers, but when his own hand at her hip slips under the edge of her top, she jumps and hisses at the sudden cold.

She's allowed herself to be distracted enough. She pulls away just as he murmurs an apology and begins to pull off his jacket, looking for a place to hang the coat. "In the kitchen," she says.

He follows with the dripping coat, placing it on the peg near the back door beside her own. She grabs two beers out of the fridge, which actually holds food in it from the grocers as well, and she knows he was looking around her to check for himself when she turns to face him again too quickly for him to look away.

Their hands brush for a moment too long when she hands him the bottle. He leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen from her, staring at her.

"You're taking care of yourself," he notes as he follows her lead and pops the cap off with the edge of the counter.

She nods and takes a drink, seeing now with his coat removed that he hasn't been. He's lost weight. He's been running himself into the ground and for nothing. She squeezes her hand around the bottle a little tighter.

It takes effort when she swallows her next sip.

Liz wants to make a fire in that neglected fireplace in the living room. She wants to make him warm. She wants to strip him bare, find a way to do the same to herself (can she even?) and she wants to make him move past his grief, forget it, just for a little while. She wants to know she's made the right choice. She wants him to be her choice.

He'd let her make it, too.

The folder is sitting in the other room, waiting to be read.

"I can't put this off," she say out loud, closing her eyes and leaning against the counter behind her. There's a clink on the other side of the kitchen and she knows is she doesn't move _now_, he's going to be in front of her, trying to comfort her, trying to help her, completely misunderstanding the situation, and she can't deal with that right now.

As quickly as she can - while Raymond's a step away, she brushes past him and into the living room and makes him sit down on the couch while she pries the panel back off the side of the staircase and pulls out the bag, pulls out the file, and hands it to him as she sits on the coffee table. Their knees brush and she realizes hers are shaking.

She wills herself to meet his gaze.

"I want this to be fake, Raymond, I really, really do...but I don't know if it is. I don't think it is. This-"

Everything else is stuck in her throat because he's flipping it open, his whole face twitching with a wince as he looks over the photo and the information next to it.

Maybe if she was kinder, more open...a different person, she'd be sitting on the couch next to him, touching him - she _wants_ to comfort him - but is paralyzed.

"Tell me what you need." Her own voice sounds like begging. "Tell me what I-"

"I need to go," he says suddenly, after an eternity. He's pushing off of the couch and curling the folder in his hands and moving towards the doorway to the kitchen so quickly it takes Liz a moment to chase after him.

"It might not be real," she says as she shoots through to the foyer and the hallway via the alternate route to the kitchen and races to grab his coat before he can reach it. "Raymond, this could be another fake like the Stewma-"

"Elizabeth," he cuts her off, dark and dangerous, and grabs at the coat in her grasp. His words are slow and she can see how much it hurts him to say them out loud. "That's. My. _Daughter_."

She yanks the coat out of his grasp, her lips pressed tightly together because she doesn't know what to say but she wants him to wait. Just sit and wait and they can call Dembe and figure this out. She knows if they take a breath they can figure out how to handle this.

They're both staring one another down and Liz can't see how this is going to end.

And then suddenly he's lets go, backs away from her, and walks out the front door.

The door slams. The clock in the kitchen ticks, her fingers bunch in fabric of the jacket, and she stares after him.

She's not certain _what_ she expected his reaction would be - how could she? - but it wasn't this.

Liz drops the jacket and starts out the door after him, grabbing her gun from the holster under the counter and stuffing it into the back of her sweats as she follows after him.

How many times has he been there for her when she's learned something that's shaken her to the core? Truths have been painful, but necessary, and he's...he's comforted her, as best he could.

She should do the same for him. Wants to do the same for him.

The rain's stopped, luckily. The second she steps off the porch, she has to hiss as her feet touch the gravel, but she tucks her hands into her sweatshirt sleeves and starts scanning the inky darkness to see how far he's gotten.

There's a bit of a naturally made ledge to the side; Liz has stood there a few mornings to watch the water while she drank her coffee. She makes out the silhouette of his legs against the faint lights of the docks below and she makes her way to him.

He doesn't look to her when she steps beside him, only starts to speak quietly. "There was...I had to lay low for so long after, had to keep quiet. I was running from Compton and from the crew involved in the Gardner job. I hadn't built my connections yet. Everything from the - everything about the investigation was kept silent. By the time I got my hands on anything, they were both declared dead. It _seemed_ like they were dead."

She wraps her arms around herself and watches him. "You were wrong about Ellen," she reminds him. "It could be forged."

"There was a rumor then about a body at a motel, nothing I could confirm at that point...it's her, Lizzie. I don't want it to be but it's...it's Kaylee."

He's never said her name out loud.

She tries to think of what he'd do, in this case, for her, what he instinctively does, and she reaches out for him, pulls him close and he breathes heavy and hot against her neck. She feels tears and only tightens her arms around his waist and on his back and they stand together shaking from cold and anger and fear and decades of wondering finally, probably, awfully answered.

It's strange, being on the other end of this action; she tries to take as much of his weight as possible, allow him to hold on to her as much as he needs to. Moves the hand on his back in some strange half-minded effort to comfort.

Is this what it's like, she thinks as she looks over his shoulder at the road winding down and below, barely lit, when you really care for someone? Half of her behavior with Tom had been reactionary, guilt-driven, because she knew she ought to do those things for him, but was only ever reminded to do them once he'd done something for her. It was a balance. Her movements now are guided more out of want than apparent expectation.

She's not sure how long passes, but he calms after some time and steps back, sniffing in a way that's far too indelicate to be normally seen from the man. His face is a well practiced blank slate when she sees it, and it stings worse than the cold to see the expression, knowing what he's actually feeling.

"You're going, aren't you?" she rushes to ask, maybe a little too hard, maybe her disappointment is too obvious, because she doesn't want to hear what his words were going to be instead.

He nods. Looks away from her at the water.

"Tell me what I can do. Tell me what you need."

Raymond turns to look at her, head tilted slightly. Liz takes a shifting step, just enough to turn on the security light again, and she sees his eyes are still red, still glistening. His lips are beginning to press together more firmly, disapproving in her actions.

And then his eyes dart down to her barefeet and he gestures to the house.

"We can talk inside. You must be freezing."

She starts walking and keeps moving once they're inside, making hot cups of tea and finally coming to a rest against the counter once she's pressed a steaming mug into his hands. She's just left her entire life behind and she is willing to do just about _anything_ for the man standing in this rented house's kitchen and if she doesn't keep herself busy, she's going to lose the little self composure she's scraped together.

If she were in his position, she'd want revenge, she'd want blood. The fact that the man he's hellbent on taking down is her biological father doesn't even give her pause.

Liz cradles her tea and watches him in the funeral home hush that's settled on the kitchen.

His next words are measured, and she knows his mind must be jumping to create some sort of plan on the fly. "Would you continue what you've been doing for me? Would you take over?"

Of all the things she'd imagine to say, _that_ wasn't one of them. "What are you going to be doing?" she counters to evade having to answer immediately.

"What I've been doing." She hates the wry smile that plays on his lips. "Lizzie, I'm well aware it's a trap. Compton's at the end of this. He'll dangle information about my daughter and in the end he'll want me to hand his own over, and he'll want to have that conversation face to face. He's going to want to pull that trigger."

Her mug hits the counter too loudly. "That's not happening."

"It's going to have to. He's better hidden than the Peking Man."

Raymond sees her unease and continues, "Having you take things over will help him think I'm alone - he'll get a kick out of thinking that the federal agent I turned also turned on me. Dembe and my associates, they're enough to keep you safe. If you wanted it."

Liz crosses her arms across her chest and tries to keep her shoulders from rising defensively as well. Could she keep doing what she's been doing for months, traveling and overseeing his business and still somehow being able to rest her head on her pillow, somehow rationalizing her actions to herself? Absolutely. It keeps her safe. It gives her connections to others, access to information. She'd be able to embed herself and evade capture.

But she wants him safe, too. She wanted his daughter to somehow, miraculously, be alive somewhere.

He'll never let this go. He has to see this through. Liz knows that, completely understands it. And if she's involved, she might be able to make sure he sees the other side of this thirty year old war.

He thinks she's worried about her own safety - setting him right would mean starting a conversation they aren't ready to have, can't have yet.

They need to work on their timing.

So Liz takes a deep breath and lets it out before she nods. "Okay."


	15. Never Meant for This to Start

**Look what's back from the dead - this fic! I'll try to alternate writing/posting chapters of this and Graveyard Shift. We'll see.**

**Chapter title from Farao's 'To Sleep Apart'.**

* * *

><p><strong>February 2014<strong>

"**S**ay that again," Liz demands, struggling to keep her anger from showing.

The burly man - he's supposed to help the team break into house - does little to hide the antagonizing smile creeping into place on his lips. "Summers will do the job, but he wants his cut doubled."

Behind her, the woman hears her bodyguard shift. Dembe is present not only to keep her safe, but to keep her in check as well.

The learning curve has been extreme, to say the least, and several of Red's associates have balked at the replacement of their employer. There have been little things meant to irritate her - associates refusing to let her open a door for herself and racing to open it instead, comments about strength, even a few fatherly pats on the arm or hand paired with the words 'We'll take care of it', and she's stifled her rising anger.

Liz has fought hard to play this aloof version of herself, almost emotionless. She's knows what it's like to take on a new leadership position and be tested as a superior (it happened more than once during her time in New York), but today's the breaking point.

Summers is the person who is supposed to be opening the safe - it does little good breaking into this French businessman's home if there's no one to actually access the safe where the item is being held.

Red wouldn't be having the conversation face-to-face. Red wouldn't be tested like this.

The team waits, as if anticipating she'll dissolve into tears, or agree to the ridiculous demand.

No fucking way she's allowing that to happen.

Actually, it's kind of funny. This is sandbox behavior, testing boundaries, trying to find limits. Instead of a group of felons and convicts and nefarious other criminal types, Liz imagines a room of boys, silly little boys, and stifles her laughter.

They know she apparently grabbed power from Red, has enough information on him to send him into hiding unable to retaliate (that's the story they're circulating), but they still have to test her.

"I guess we're going to have to go on without him then," she informs the team, not even attempting to sound contrite. They seemed confused by her lack of reaction.

She continues to levelly stare at the hairy, burly gentleman who appears to have become the group's leader. A faint smile blooms on her lips, but it's not inviting. It's the expression she would adopt when she was observing a subject, or a target; now it wasn't restricted.

Liz accepts her coat from Dembe, quickly putting it on and she's just pulling her hair out of the collar when the team, who have been muttering quietly amongst themselves, speaks up.

"It's too late to bring in someone else. There's no time to memorize the plans and the safe schematics."

She keeps buttoning up her coat as she responds, wintery but with an air of professional pleasantness. "I never said I _was_ bringing anyone else in...Tell Summers that next time, before he tries to demand higher pay for a simple job, he needs to make sure there isn't already someone else who can replace him."

The safe is a 1907 Mossler, an old beast, but prior to their target buying the thing, the lock was updated in the 1960s with a Sargent and Greenleaf combo dial - research into servicing and its purchase had shown them that.

When Liz meets up with the men that night, Dembe just a step to the side and behind her, she sees real shock on their faces.

She puts thinner leather gloves on with a smile. "Let's get to work."

Sam used to let her mess around with that exact same lock as a kid - he'd hide her birthday presents in a safe with a S&G on it.

She beats her old record cracking the lock that night, and she doesn't rein in the smile.

When Liz steps back, feeling accomplished, she remembers Sam's reaction once she started to get good at it, get better, faster. The way his smile fell a little. The way he told her she needed to do her homework, to stop playing around.

What would he think of her now?

She sits back on the jet later that evening, the job successful and over, and mulls that question over.

Touching down in Italy, Liz feels anxious but smooths her hair back with steady fingers. She's learning to channel those nerves into vigilance, taught muscles set to spring. Dembe has helped incredibly in that regard, and she values his friendship.

She barely sleeps anymore, but when she does it's brief and she wakes up feeling even more tired than she did before she closed her eyes. It puts her off from it. Coffee, adrenaline, they take its place.

Filomena greets her kindly, takes in her appearance instantly and with appraisal before they settle into their seats. The dining room of this restaurant is empty, lit well by the sunlight streaming through the windows. The rich wood paneling contrasts with the crisp white linen, but the space seems empty and airy instead of its typical candlelit intimacy for its evening patrons. The room echoes with the noise of the kitchen, unmuffled by the low hum of dinner patrons.

Filomena and Liz sit tucked away in an alcove, with a table full of delicious looking foods between them. It's inviting but it creates distance. Liz insisted on using another restaurant beside Aldo's so she could ensure loyalty - a bribe had helped get the executive chef's banned fish into the country without fanfare and secured them the eatery for their meeting. Dembe is sitting and a table next to them, reading a biography on his tablet but still entirely aware of the conversation and any threat to their security.

"I do not recall ever meeting Senore Valenti at this establishment before," her lunch guest remarks, pleasantly. Filomena sets about draping her napkin on her lap and settling in with brisk grace. Liz can just make out her nervousness in the worried chafe of her lips and the way she adjusts her place setting.

Liz doesn't follow suit. She sits back in her seat and watches Filomena.

"Senore Valenti didn't leave a meeting with you to be attacked in their hotel room," she points out in an even voice.

They're halfway across the country from where Red used to meet the woman, and they're a week shy of their typical meetup date. She's well aware that this businesswoman is not to blame for the situation they ended up in the last time she was here; she's done her homework, she's looked into it.

Filomena doesn't know that.

Maybe if Reddington's empire wasn't so large, so high-stakes, she'd be able to consider Filomena a friend, someone she could really trust. She would have liked that.

Maybe she can only count the people she can trust on one hand, but she knows she can trust them with her life, and with Red's, and she can't afford risks right now.

The older woman pales visibly, and her hand shakes as she reaches for the water glass. "Miss Applegate, surely you know I had no part in that."

Liz keeps herself very still. "I would hope not, and you're a very smart woman," she responds, and then sets about tucking her own napkin on her lap and reaching for a plate to serve herself from it. "What can you tell me?"

The meal progresses with new information that will pay off in the long run, and Filomena warms up by the time the plates are almost emptied.

"Are we going to discuss it...him, or is it off of the table?" she asks Liz, dabbing at her mouth delicately.

Liz gives a subtle shrug. "Change is inevitable in any organization," she replies calmly.

Filomena nods, taking a moment to phrase her next question. "I perhaps misread your relationship with him last time."

Liz takes another sip of her wine before answering. "We are survivors, you and I," she reminds the woman.

Half truths. That's how she gets through these rounds of questions with Red's contacts. They all seem to do the same thing before she meets with them: reach out to Red's employees to verify the takeover, then double check with others who did business with the Concierge of Crime. Dembe has told her to remain calm, to expect it. The tale of the FBI agent who wood Raymond Reddington and stole his life's work out from under him is hard to handle, it seems.

Filomena dips her head in acknowledgement. "I am not the only one who misunderstood. I have heard more than one of my clients had seen you with him at that event in New York, of Raymond Reddington and the girl, the woman in the red dress, _rosso come una melagrana_." She chuckles. "There were some who thought it was fitting, like a fairytale."

That particular story isn't a fairytale, if she remembers correctly.

"People have too much time on their hands," Liz says quietly.

"There is a shred of truth to it, yes?" Filomena prompts.

Small, ever so small. "You'd need a mother for that to work, if I remember correctly."

Filomena's smile is tight-lipped, but wise. "All children have mothers."

Liz tosses her napkin on the table, realizing only afterward that she's moved too angrily, too defensively. "Not all," she refutes as she pushes back from the table. "It was nice to see you again Filomena," she says, triggering Dembe to stand up at the same time she does.

The air has a bit of a wintry chill to it when she steps outside and she welcomes it. It's a shore town - she tastes the salt on the wind and the combination comforts her. Liz curls her fingers around the phone in her pocket and knows immediately how many days it has been since she heard from Ray last.

She knows contacts she can reach out to, if he doesn't call her. One of them is one of her family members, the other is one of his.

Formerly his.

This is still hard to get used to, an alias that doesn't flow perfectly off the tongue. She plays the part and wears the clothes but it all doesn't sit properly on her shoulders.

She is comfortable in the world she now inhabits, but not entirely familiar with the role she needs to play. This whirlwind world would be easier with Red beside her.

By the time the sun is setting, she is in Greece in with her security detail in a villa by the water. It's simple but opulent in a spare way. Her room is large, but the view of the water is breathtaking, and it's what she's looking at when her phone rings.

"You were two hours shy from being pulled out of whatever hole you're in right now," Liz greets the Concierge of Crime, leaning against the doorway of the balcony. She hears his huff of breath, a gentle laugh, and a small bit of the tension in her shoulders releases. "And thanks to your plan, I now have the resources to make good on that threat."

"Hello to you too, sweetheart," he replies warmly, but she can hear the quiet is masking tiredness.

Liz toes off her heels and keeps her eyes trained on the reflection of the town lights on the water. "How are you?" she asks in a low voice.

"Breathing. Keeping ahead of those I need to keep ahead o-" A seagull cries near her balcony, and it cuts him off. "Where are you?"

"Tell me where _you_ are," she counter demands as she drops her head back against the door frame to watch a small boat sedately approach a dock on the other side of the inlet.

They're not stupid. Neither is going to give their location away; as secure as these phones are, they can't be too careful.

"Nowhere I'd ever want to see you," he informs her. "Your turn."

"By the water," she murmurs, a smile in her voice at their evasiveness, then says seriously, "You should be here."

He pauses, and it's so quiet on his end she can make out his slight inhale. She doesn't even have to close her eyes, she can easily imagine what he looks like right now as he mulls over a response.

Are they going to talk or are they going to _talk_?

"I have the utmost faith in you," he decided to say, and in that second, Liz decides she's not going to let him steer this conversation.

"That's not what I mean," she curtly tells him. "You know what I mean."

"We can't right now."

"Then when?" she presses, because there's an impatience, an ache that's been slowly burning in her gut for for too long now. "I won't do this forever, Red. I can't keep pretending I've stolen your empire, that I fucked my way to the top. I can't do this."

The words are barely off of her tongue before she remembers who she is talking to. She fidgets in clothes and actions that she has only just started to wear; Raymond has been stuck in his own persona for decades.

She holds her breath for a moment and lets it out slowly. "Sorry. Sorry, that wasn't-"

"-Don't apologize; I asked you to shoulder a heavy burden," he answers her swiftly. "It wasn't right."

She's quick to argue. "You gave me a choice, I agreed to this, I just didn't…" Liz trails off, shakes her head and clears her throat. Time has gone by and they've barely talked about anything of importance. "How much longer can we speak?"

"I'm safe for now."

Liz can hear the rasp in his voice; he get's that way when he's gone without sleep for too long. "You're tired."

He laughs dryly. "That's nothing new."

Liz compares the man she knows now to that character who sat chained to a chair so many months ago; that character would never admit to a weakness like exhaustion, or the perpetual state of it.

She bites her lip as she walks back into her room to sit on the bed, settling herself against the headboard. "Is it safe to sleep wherever you are?"

He replies blandly, "Not really," and then Liz hears fabric moving and a small grunt. "But it'll do for the time being," he continues, and he sounds just a little more relaxed.

"Want me to stay on the phone?"

Red's chuckle sends a frisson up her spine, even over the phone, and she curls her toes into the comforter. She finds herself wanting to hear that noise in person, beside her, wants to know what it's like to feel that rumble against her skin.

"Conversations with you don't put me to sleep, Lizzie," he tells her matter-of-factly, but there's something to his tone that has a smile creeping across her face.

Her heart beats a little faster in her chest, and for a second she battles with whether or not to push it. It takes her a moment to work up the courage before teetering into the question.

"Who said that was my intention?"

He freezes on the other end of the line, and miles away from where she is, Raymond Reddington sucks in a breath so quickly it whistles over his lower teeth. The reaction emboldens her.

Liz fights to keep her voice even, varnished with a layer of calm that doesn't match the heat pooling between her legs, or the curl of her grip on the phone. "Do you want me to tell you about what I did? About the safe I cracked? Are you going to imagine me on my knees in front of-"

She hears him swallow and she lets out a shaking laugh, giddy with the knowledge she's got this kind of control over him. Imagines that car ride on the way to the gala and wishes she'd known then what she knows now. They would have missed his kidnapping, she knows that now.

"Lizzie," he rasps and she presses her eyes shut and her thighs together. Oh God, she doesn't care if it's a pile of blankets on a cot or on a fucking dirt floor in a cave she _wants_ him. Wants him so badly. Maybe it's better he doesn't tell her where he is.

"I should let you go," she says, but even to herself she doesn't sound convinced. "Sounds like you've got a lot to deal with right now. Unless...do you want me to stay on the-"

"No." It sounds like the word was torn out of the back of his throat. "If we don't stop this right now, I'm going to get on the next plane I can and I'm going to - Jesus Christ," he mutters in a choked, small voice and she hears him take a shuddering breath just as the line goes dead.

Liz yanks the phone away from her ear to check that she didn't end the call. Her head hits the wall behind her with a harsh _thud_ and she tries to take a calming breath but her hands have their own agenda, and she's trying to get the zipper down on her own pants, sliding down the front of her own panties, wishing it was his hands on her, wondering what would have happened if he hadn't hung up, wanting to hear what he was going to do.

It doesn't take long, and she comes with a small whimper, breathing rapidly through her nose, her lips pressed firmly shut, her face turned to the side and half muffled in her pillow. It sates the immediate need but it's like she's unlocked some great unending _hunger _and it takes a great deal of effort not to cry out at its discovery. She can't face Dembe or any other member of her security team right now.

Liz spends an immeasurable amount of time staring out the window at the water as her breathing evens out and her heart stops racing.

Days go by, business continues. Liz continues to try to keep her shoulders back and level even as almost every interaction with Red's associates leaves her tacked with another label on her like 'child' and 'backstabber' and 'whore'. There's a few women among them, and they seem to approve, praise her even, ask her 'just how long she knew him' before she took over.

_He's known them for years, _she reminds herself_, long before you came along. _ Jealousy still blossoms in her chest, anyway.

There's a close brush with authorities in Karaj at the border and Liz shoots a man in the leg, and sustains a bullet graze of her own.

It ruins the sleeve of her lavender blouse.

Dembe patches her up and asks if she wants to cancel their dinner with a Taiwanese drug lord, watching her carefully for signs of shock, of a nervous breakdown, but she shakes her head. She needs to secure the deal with this man - a competitor is offering her a decent sum of money for the territory.

She's done her research: Decades earlier, the rival dealer was photographed with several men all bearing that mangled 'Y' tattoo. He's prospered since then. She's done very well so far at gaining his trust, business-wise. Once she gains access to some of his financial information, she'll be able to set Red's people on doing a bit forensic accounting, and ultimately she'll be slipping the info to the Post Office.

It was part of her agreement with Raymond; from time to time, with great caution and all potential ties to herself erased, she'd be able to slip info to her previous co workers. She knows why Red is fine with it - he's still trying to leave her some kind of out, some constant and faintly glowing 'Exit' sign that hovers nearby.

She's not only doing it for insurance; it makes her feel like she's doing something good with what she's been given access to. It makes it easier to sleep at night.

"Liz," Dembe says her name gently, shaking her from her thoughts. "We can postpone the meeting; there is nothing wrong with taking time to regroup."

She squeezes her friend's hand, flashes him an appreciative smile. "No, let's-it's okay. We'll keep this quiet."

Gingerly, she slips a blazer on over the stained blouse sleeve and evidence of the incident vanishes as she composes herself.

"We can start investigating who tipped off those border guards in the meantime," she tells him as she pulls out the latest burner phone, scrolling through the contacts to the name of a woman who will assist with that.

She looks at the date and time and presses her lips together for a second, then hits the call button.

Liz hasn't heard from Raymond and he's overdue for a check in - after what took place last time, she's been eager to talk to him and edgy about it in equal measure. Dembe's worried too, and he already has a few trusted people looking for him as well as inquiries into any rumors or sightings. They keep giving one another fretting glances with greater frequency.

The meeting with the drug lord goes as smoothly as could be expected. They find the person who tipped the border guards off, and they are dealt with. If they're spreading Liz's cover story to the agents taking their testimony, that's fine, that helps spread her story.

Another week goes by without a word, without even a shred of a clue, and she feels like she's at her breaking point when Mr. Kaplan unexpectedly shows up, wrapped in a thick dark scarf and a heavy wool coat, at a meeting in Toronto.

Kaplan links arms with Lizzie, jerks her chin at Dembe to follow, and navigates them up a flight of stairs and into an empty doctor's office in the building. Despite assurance the suite is clear, Dembe and Liz immediately sweep the space to check before joining Kaplan in an exam room.

"We have a problem," the cleaner informs them severely before exhaling heavily.

"Where is he?" Liz asks with no preamble, and beside her, Dembe stands a little taller.

Careless of the poster behind them with facts about lung cancer, Mr. Kaplan lights a cigarette and takes a long, nervous drag. Liz fidgets, tense.

"That's the thing, no one knows."

The former FBI agent's eyebrows rise. "We've had eyes on him in some capacity or another, haven't we?"

Mr. Kaplan nods. "We did." Another puff of the cigarette, and Liz thinks she hates those things even more now. "But he's ditched the tail."

"Raymond would only do that if he had good reason," argues Dembe, eyebrows knitted together.

Mr. Kaplan shrugs, unaware of the _why_ before answering,"Sweetheart, he's got a bullseye on his forehead, the kind that even Raymond Reddington can't shake. Compton put out the message: He wants him alive but not necessarily unharmed; he just needs to be able to talk when he's delivered. Every time I hear the reward amount being mentioned, another zero get tacked on the end."

Compton must have suspected Red was aware he was the person giving him order. Or maybe this was a test to see that he truly was alone, without allies? Liz sinks back against the counter and pushes both of her hands through her hair before closing her eyes to think.

No wonder she hasn't heard a damn thing - why would anyone give anyone else help in one of the biggest payloads in criminal history?

The entire world is gunning for him now.

This is that moment, right now, where she can cut ties with the man. She could leave him to his fate, live safe and secure and wealthy in this world of private jets and palatial residences and crime for the rest of her theoretically longer life. It might cost her the loyalty of some of those closest to her, but she'd survive.

She doesn't want to just survive.

There's only one way she can think of helping him, protecting him.

Liz pushes off the counter and looks at the other two determinedly.

"Guess we're joining the manhunt, then."


	16. Come Too Far to Look the Other Way

**Still don't own anything, still ship 'em.**

**Chapter title from Bad Intentions by Digital Daggers**

* * *

><p><strong>March 2014<strong>

"**D**rink that tea and stop fidgeting," Mr. Kaplan barks at Liz, giving her a stern glance from the other side of the small round table. "Dembe, you better watch her caffeine intake. This girl is going to vibrate out of her chair right now as it is."

They're in the kitchen of a gorgeous townhome in an American East coast college town, just a few blocks away from the main shopping and nightlife hub where they grabbed coffee from a tiny little roastery. The pastry bag's contents have already been pulled out and picked apart before they do the same with their plan moving ahead.

After licking fingers coated in pastry flakes, the Cleaner starts. "We'll need to get the word out you're going after him. The money isn't going to be worth it - I mean they think you stole his empire out from under him, for Christ's sake."

Liz gives an inelegant snicker. "My reputation as a stone cold bitch has already been partially established. Going after him just to prove I can and to continue to ruin him would probably seem in character."

In character. No Gatz Project for her, just expensive clothes and swanky restaurants and guns and blood as her costumes, stage, and props.

Sometimes she wonders what they've got on her in DC. What little shreds have they found of this character she's playing. What's inevitably been planted in her files. What Meera, Cooper, Aram and Ressler think of her.

She takes another sip of her goddamn herbal team and realizes the continued growth of her cold blooded reputation might help her in other ways.

"Might cut down on the belittling a bit, too," she muses.

Kaplan gives her an eyeroll and shake of the head. "You've got to make them stop that. I started in the typing pool in DC and dealt with more than my share of sexist shit. I'm not that person anymore - you make them realize that even the prettiest of flowers have thorns, have poison in them. Takes time and a spine but it's needed."

"Very true," agrees Dembe, and then he hunches a little closer to the table and taps the files there. "We must get back to the plan."

Kaplan talks while lighting a cigarette. Liz wonders if the real owner of this home ever smoked or allowed smoking in here - she hasn't found so much as a single ashtray anywhere.

"We start at the bottom, let the word get out that you're looking."

She nods. "With the people I'd be paying to look for him...I _will_ be paying to look for him." She crosses her arms and sits back. "Guess I'll be doing it in person to really make the point clear?"

Kaplan smiles. "What do they say on that Scandal show? 'Good for optics?"

Less than a week later, Liz stands with Dembe in a Chicago warehouse, her dove gray wool coat in harsh contrast to the dimly lit space. They are overseeing the handover of cash to a small gathering of those who keep the criminal underground rumor mill spinning. It's the fourth meeting of this kind that she's had in the country; this one is the last before they head to Bergen, Norway.

The seedy individuals before her are tipped generously; confirmed word on Red's whereabouts, and the speedy communication of the information to her before it's passed along the grapevine, will result in their access to a hefty sum waiting in a Swiss bank account. It's not the amount Compton is providing, but this far down the chain, the people before her would never be able to cash in on the reward without being intercepted by a bigger fish in their criminal pond.

"Attempt to screw me over and one of my associates will be visiting your grieving family at your funeral," she's warned them, and she'd seen a few of them swallow nervously, one blanched.

Liz and Dembe start to make their way to the other side of the warehouse, to the exit, when she hears noise at the entrance their guests had been using. Members of Red's SWAT-like team that had helped her and Kaplan look for Raymond after he'd been taken by Garrick are assisting her once more, this time as her security team. One of them is barring a man from entering, who shouts his protest.

Liz doesn't have to see the face because she recognizes the voice. Her steps speed up, only slightly, but it's enough for Dembe to notice; he slows his pace by half a step to effectively cover her back.

"What do you want them to do?" he asks her quietly as they open the door to the stairwell and start their swift descent.

"Nothing," she responds, because her heart is pounding and she might be sick. What the hell was Frankie doing out, and in Chicago of all places? Her stomach does a horrible flip as she considers what might have gotten him out early.

She grips the railing beside her in a gloved hand and she stops; the echo of her heels' clatter ebbs off and Dembe waits beside her, ready to spring into whatever action is required.

Only one way to know for certain if her family is in danger.

Liz exhales a shaky breath to make room for some calm and clarity. "I need to speak to that guy... in the car."

Several minutes and blocks later, Dembe snags him and throws him into the backseat of the sleek town car before gunning it.

Frankie freezes mid complaint and stares at Liz on the other end of the leather upholstery.

He's older, and the acne is gone - so is the bad bleached hair tips - but he's still in a grease-stained shirt and old faded jeans, just like he always was. He probably has the same socks from their childhood, with his initials on the heel in bled Sharpie from his disastrous and brief stint at summer camp.

"What the _fuck_?" he exclaims in a high-pitched voice while pressing his back against the car door, as far from her as possible. "Beth? _You're_ Elizabeth Scott?"

She doesn't have the patience to go through this right now, instead she gives him a stern look, the one that worked since they were kids and threatened a broken nose, and sure enough, it still works.

"How did you get out early?" she asks without preamble, and when it's obvious he isn't going to respond and assure he didn't provide information about her, she zeroes in on pushing the buttons that will get an answer for her. "You got out early and you go right back to your usual shit...what the hell Frankie? I thought you'd learned last time."

He sits up in the seat, furious. "You mean when my cousin _betrayed_ me?" he asks, accusing and angry. "This two for two as far as as shitty family reunions go. Good job, cous'."

Liz stares at him, mouth open in disbelief for a second before exhaling heavily. "Spare me the guilt trip, Franklin. I had _nothing_ to do with the investigation into your crew. _You_ fucked up. You got caught."

If they were kids still, this would have already dissolved into an all out scuffle. She can practically feel Dembe's eyes on her in the driver's seat.

"I wasn't involved in the investigation, Frank. My unit had a meeting with two officers at the precinct. I would never rat out my fam-"

"Don't you talk about family, Beth," Frankie cuts her off fiercely. "If my dad hadn't threatened to kick my ass and disown me, I would have told the cops _all_ about how Beth...Whatever-Your-Name-You-Were-Going By-Then learned to boost cars right alongside me back when she had pigtails. Got a photo album they would _love_ to see, bet they'd pay me now."

He shakes his head, looking over her clothes and the car with sneering distaste that has her seething silently. "Whatever it takes to finish first, huh Bethy? Chip off the ol' block. You and Uncle Sam never gave a shit about who you fucked over as long as you come out on to-"

Some things never change. He makes the same crying yelp when her fist makes solid contact with his face. He still brays in pain when he cups his bleeding nose.

"_What the fuck-"_

"Don't you _ever_ talk about my dad that way," Liz barks. "He and I were _attacked_ Frankie. Attacked. Someone came into our fucking house in the middle of the night and tried to _kill_ us."

The cops told them about the body they found in the fire - a girl, close to her age and weight and height. Close enough that she would have been identified as her if Sam hadn't woken up when he did, hadn't saved their lives. She can't share that, because Frankie will want to know why someone wanted to take her and not Sam, too.

"We didn't snitch," she continues. "The cops didn't have a clue about the family. We never said a word. We didn't want to leave but it seemed like the only way to stay safe - and keep all of you safe as well. The second I was discharged from the hospital, we ran."

She'd never forget that week in...she thinks it was Iowa. Somewhere in Iowa in a shitty motel where the cleaning lady's cart had a squeaky wheel and she practiced writing 'Elizabeth Scott' over and over again until it felt normal at the desk in their room, trained herself to answer to 'Liz' and not 'Beth'. She covered countless free postcards with her new signature until that little mini golf pencil was a useless stub, until she and her dad drove away from the motel with new haircuts and new identities.

Her explanation shuts Frankie up. He's gaping at her like a fish for a few solid seconds before recovering enough to say, weakly "I thought you were in WitPro. I thought that was why we moved Christmas to February for you guys, because WitPro-"

Liz shakes her head and hands him a tissue for his nose. "No. No we could never have visited you guys. We just needed to be extra careful when we came."

Her cousin nods slowly. "Shit," he says to himself, then repeats it a little louder. "Shit. My cousin is Elizabeth Scott." He laughs and shakes his head. "This is hilarious. Carly still hasn't forgiven you for becoming a cop or," he waves his hand around in her direction, "whatever it is you are - were, and now you've stolen Red Reddington's team. Shit. Shit, they'll never believe it."

Liz shakes her head, serious and eyes wide. "They can't know about this Frankie. This is...there's more going on than even I know. The same people who were looking for us back then are still out there, and they're still looking. You say anything to anyone and they'll come knocking."

"Okay, okay," he says quickly. "Keep the info to myself. I get it. I'm not a complete fucking idiot, Beth."

Liz makes no comment, but a response sits at the tip of her tongue until she decides to ask instead "If you didn't give them info on me, what _did_ get you out early?"

"Good behavior," he tells her, then slaps a hand over his heart and holds the other up beside him, eyes wide in response to her incredulous reaction. "God's honest. I kept my head down this time. Read a lot...I could probably kick your fucking ass at Scrabble now."

He holds up a finger to stave off the inevitable question. "Like the word 'hypocrite' is coming to mind now. Big word. 19 points. Also describes you if you say anything about me doing what I do."

She changes tactics. "Uncle Stewart can't bribe cops out here, Frankie."

Her cousin replies, defensively, "I'm only here for that meeting today...took me longer than I thought it would to get out of town without my parole officer figuring it out. I'm like the Perez Hilton of organized crime these days back home."

She rolls her eyes. "Sure. Okay."

Her cousin makes a whining noise of protest. "I am! Listen, I haven't heard a word about Reddington, outside of news about what you did and that there's some organization looking for him and a big reward." He holds out a hand and wiggles his fingers. "Now fork over the cash."

The well-dressed woman crosses her arms and gives a disbelieving laugh. "Why would I give a reward to the guy who was late to the meeting and got kicked out by my security team?" she asks with false innocence.

"Beth!"

She shakes her head again. "When this is done, I promise, I'll buy you a car if that's what you want; right now I can't draw any attention to you...you _cannot_ let on that you know me. Keep everyone out of this. Keep yourself out of this. The farther you are from this the better."

Maybe it's his gangly frame, or something about his unchecked, enthusiastic mannerisms, but Liz realizes in that moment that one of the reasons she immediately liked Aram was that he reminded her of her cousin. She and Frankie didn't always get along growing up, but they were family, _are_ family, and they care about one another when it came down to it.

And you protect your family when you can, as much as you can.

Frankie gives her a long hug before he gets out of the car, tells her in a hushed voice that he misses her, and then they're leaving him on the curb only a block away from where they picked him up, and Liz is trying to compose herself.

The little black book of names her Dad had left her includes Uncle Stewart's name and number, and others. Sam had contacts all over, and he'd tried to provide her assistance if she needed it. Low on the pecking order, maybe, but they're all people who would help her without hesitation.

All of those names in that book are her own, strange family, and she's not going to risk them. She is cutting herself off from them.

Dembe must sense her thoughtful quiet, because he doesn't ask her anything about what just took place as they start on the drive to the jet.

Liz imagines what it would have been like if she'd gone home for 'Christmas' earlier in the month.

The sleek car that Liz is riding in would stand out enough amongst the pick up trucks and older model cars that would be parked along the dirt road and side yard.

Uncle Stewart's home is a Frankensteined affair; they added a second floor above the garage, which became Frankie's bedroom when he was a teen, and the ranch was raised as well. The whole house would be brightly lit and packed full. Despite the wintry weather, the front door would inevitably be left open to cool the place, the screen closed over.

Liz knows it would probably be loud and overheated in there. It would smell like good food and beer - most of her family gave up smoking over the years, and the rest stubbed out their last cigarette when Sam got cancer the first time.

But underneath the veneer of chaotic domesticity is the truth: her family is mostly all criminals, people who aren't linked on paper or by blood but by loyalty and experience. She's not sure how Sam found them in the first place when they started over after the auto shop, but they were their saving grace.

There was always the underlying anxiety that someone would walk out the door and not come back. There were hushed conversations and raised voices and she'd never forget the first time she was asked to help patch up a family member after they were grazed by a bullet, holding a bandage in place while her aunt wound gauze around her other aunt's stomach.

When Liz had told her father about her plans to become a psychologist, he'd been so relieved; she wasn't following in his footsteps. When he came to visit her in New York and she'd told him about her job with the FBI, that her family would still come first, that maybe she could help them with her new position, she'd never forget the way his face fell.

"This is a good thing, Butterball," he'd said to her that night, so quiet and sad she'd immediately felt shameful. "Don't poison this."

Maybe she just wasn't meant to live an honest life - this lying and stealing, she's good at it. Maybe this was always what she was supposed to be, made to do. Can't argue nature or nurture in her case, it's all the same.

Liz and Dembe sit in a hotel room in Norway that night, each with a tumbler of scotch in hand. It's late and Dembe is on the couch watching Charlie Chaplin and a dark haired girl cause a paddy wagon to crash, and Liz has her heels off in her room.

She asks herself the question again: what would Sam think of her now? What would he say about his daughter and her actions?

If she wanted to delude herself, she'd say he'd understand, approve of it maybe - so many people never develop beyond needing that parental approval, dwell on it and fester. She's had to think long and hard about fathers and daughters and her own perspective within the past few months and she's worked her way though some of her own hangups.

Liz finishes off her drink. 'Sorry, Dad,' she thinks.

It didn't matter what Sam would have thought about this, or what she _thinks_ he would have thought or wanted. He is dead, and Liz and Red are not, and she is going to keep it that way.

It's a barebones sort of credo, but it sustains her in the months to come.

They are hard months - following Red, chasing him as she herself is chased. Meera comes close to catching her on a trip to Tampa, of all places, but Liz escapes and is shaken by the shock in the woman's eyes - what did they think had happened to her?

Sometimes she looks at the surveillance photos she has sent to her and is happy to see that Aram is out with Ressler and Meera on the rare nights they aren't working. It's a good sign they trust him.

She questions. She shoots. She threatens. She runs. She deals. She hunts. She steals. She lies. She demands.

Compton's bounty is still out there, so she, Dembe, and Mr. Kaplan hold onto the hope Ray's still alive, still unharmed for the most part.

With each day that passes, she's able to hold her own just a little more in their work. Most days it's business, some days she's donning tactical gear and joining the security team when they get a tip that seems to be valid but isn't in the end. They are just hours behind Red in Balakovo, so close she can smell his aftershave in the tiny little flat; it isn't his usual scent, but a cheaper variant she knows he'd select and she hesitates at the door before leaving - it's the closest she's gotten to him in months.

She dreams of fire. She dreams of being small, of some shapeless entity grabbing her by her arm - sometimes is shatters it, other times it brands her. She dreams of Raymond, of his body covering hers, of them consuming one another. She dreams of their dead. She is happy she does not get much time to sleep these days.

Every day is another opportunity for her to call off the search, but she chooses to keep looking. She keeps choosing him.

Liz and Dembe find themselves in Phnom Penh in July, on a day that is as hot and rainy as can be expected in the Cambodian city. She feels sluggish in the heat, but her mind is anxious, jittery. Intel came through that Raymond was spotted nearby, confirmed by a second tip off. If there's been enough time for the message to come to her twice over, it means there are others who may know as well.

Her fears were validated when they're halfway over the Pacific and the satphone rang, a contact in the Phillipines confirming Hal Rockland, a merc who has been keeping a close pace with her in the race to find Reddington, had been seen leaving Manila via cargo plane with his team.

The plane barely starts to touch down before Dembe and Elizabeth are out of their seats, already changed and armed to the teeth. As they gun it out of the plane hanger, Dembe gets a call that a second team of glorified bounty hunters has been seen in the city as well, but thankfully they're miles away and clearly off Red's true trail. They're still too close.

Her friend lets out a rare curse and presses down on the gas.

The team they've thrown together to assist them isn't her first choice, but they're fairly well known players in this game, and she's assured them rewards that amass to even more than what her father is offering. They think she wants the honor of handing Reddington over and she's fine with that - they're expendable, they're trivial. If she can trust them to shoot her enemies and shield her and Dembe and Red if needed, and that's what matters right now.

Raymond's team of tech geeks back in DC found the GPS nav signals from Rockland's team's SUVs and they're tracing them to a closed down factory campus on the water's edge; her stomach churns when she finds out they've been stationary for almost an hour now. That's a lot of time. Her tactical team is working to surround the area and figure out which building they're in.

Liz grips the door handle as the city flies by outside their vehicle, ready to spring out the second they stop. Dembe's face is grim and set on the road while he navigates, bobbing and weaving through the traffic that thins as they approach the site, meeting a mile away and hopping into the back of a van to meet with the security team's leader, Manuelo, to go over the plan.

They can't determine where anyone is inside the heart of the building, but their local tip off source has confirmed that a man matching Red's description was seen being dragged out of an apartment earlier in the day. Thermal scans of the building are confirming the presence of several people inside the building, bodies present near entrances and exits - they've got guards in place. Manuelo assures her they'll be able to neutralize them as they go through - they're already working on scrambling Rockland's communication system once her team is in place.

The DC geeks have warned her they're picking up on an outgoing video signal from the area - visual confirmation for Compton probably. Liz curls her fingers into her palm in her pocket, forcing a smile on her lips. She's supposed to be enjoying this, even as she remember's Kaplan's words.

_Alive but not necessarily unharmed_. Red's been in there with them for an hour now.

Dembe sticks close to her, shooting her a pointed look over Manuelo's head, and she tries to make her answering nod of her head as subtle as possible. They'll be sticking together once this starts. This team's loyalty is bought; they might try to doublecross them once they gain possession of Red, and she's not going to let that happen. Dembe's been working on several exit strategies for the three of them at Liz's insistence.

Her heart hammers in her chest as she and Dembe take position in the second wave of her team to enter the building. Sweat from her nerves and the humid heat drips down her back underneath the heavy vest, and she suppresses a shiver.

Time seems to both stretch and speed forward, and before she knows it, she's entering the building, gun drawn. It's a fight to keep her vision from zeroing in on things, to prevent panic from flooding her senses, but she evens out her breathing and regains control after the first time she needs to fire her gun at a member of Rockland's guards who materializes out of the shadows in the dark underground hallway. The chatter of her team is all but white noise in her ear, joining with the low hum of some fans that are still on in the building. She and Dembe and another member of the team silently climb the stairs he was guarding and check the next floor before creeping out, low and tense.

The room ahead is almost at the center of the building, and so bright that the light spills into the hallway. Liz hears talking in there, and it echoes - it's a big space then. Room for a lot of people. Two more members of her team come from the opposite end of the hall and wait to move in on Manuelo's signal. There's gunfire off somewhere else in the building, but she ignores it; Dembe is right beside her and this was the most heavily guarded area of the building - Raymond is probably on the other side of this concrete wall.

She hears a male voice complain in Spanish that there's an issue with the signal.

Liz doesn't think she's ever been so happy to hear that belittling laugh or condescending tone when Raymond informs his captors "You get what you pay for."

Someone within grunts in pain and breathes wet and heavy and her blood boils, because it's clearly Red being punished for his comment. Dembe grabs at the back of her vest, keeping her from moving.

Manuelo gestures - it's time to start.

Almost instantly, there's return gunfire - only one gun - and she sees a member of their team go down. Surprise no longer on their side, she shouts 'Watch where you're shooting!' at the two men who move to the doorway because she is not this close to getting Raymond back only to lose him. In seconds they're being dragged back, most likely dead or on their way to it. The man next to her is between her and the door as they move closer to the opening, Dembe just a step behind.

There's a pause in the fire and Liz and the man closest to the door takes the chance to move into the frame and fire two shots in quick succession. There's the tell-tale noise of a body falling and metal clattering along the floor in the other room. There was a shooter from above, she thinks as she moves to the edge of the door. If there's one there might be -

There's the weight of the team mate falling back onto her, and she immediately ducks down but keeps his body in front of her, his still form taking the next bullet and allowing her a heartbeat to search for the source of the shot - there's another shooter on the walkway above. Just in the periphery of her vision she sees Dembe reaching out to snag the back of her vest, but she's moving forward and taking the shot.

Liz has only a fraction of a second to survey the room before she drops the man she was using as a human shield to take cover behind a thick structural column, yanking the dead man's spare gun out of its holster as she moves.

She drops down as a bullet flies over her head from another angle - right in front of her - and she slides the last few inches across the floor, dirt and bullet-loosened concrete embedding into her skin with a sting she is only half-aware of. In the next few seconds of relative silence, she check the clip in her newly acquired weapon and allows herself to process what she saw.

It's a stark scene she finds.

There's an industrial hum and an unwavering tick. The second part would be easy to confuse with the sound of a wristwatch if it weren't for the pool of red beneath the solitary chair on the bare concrete. The blue-blond light that shines through the gloomy windows is almost as anemic as Raymond Reddington, tied to the chair and bleeding out.

When Elizabeth decides to give up her hiding spot, the rubber treads of her thick soled boots scrape across leftover bits of debris on the concrete; the noise hisses and echoes in the vast space. With slight delay, the seated man's eyes open, finding her before him. He acknowledges her by pressing his lips together.

If he is surprised when he finds himself staring at the barrel of her gun, he does not show it.

His eyes slide shut in understanding - he can't nod.

She fires.

It's not Rockland who was standing behind Red, now ducking and using him as a barrier. The shot is too close to Raymond for her own comfort but she has to take it, has Red's understanding.

Liz doesn't think she'll ever forget the way he winces when the bullet clips him on its way into his torturer's head.

All of the panic she's feeling, all the relief, all the primal, possessive anger surging in her, it's like someone hits the pause button on her emotions as she fully gives up her cover and advances to assess how badly Raymond is hurt and to scan the walkway above for any other threats. She kicks the tripod holding up a camera in front of Red for good measure, enjoying the clattering noise it makes when it falls to the floor and focuses on that instead of her desire to latch onto Raymond and never let him go. If she lets herself _feel_ right now, she's going to crumble and they'll never get out of here safely.

Liz spots Rockland's still body on the walkway above. There's a phone beside him. He was probably trying to make the call to Compton's number since the camera was malfunctioning.

Satisfied that at least for the moment it's clear, she squats and picks up the abandoned, bloodied knife beside the chair and ignores how wet it is as she uses it to cut the crudely wrapped duct tape keeping the man secured to the chair. The wounds they'd given him all appear small, meant to maximize pain but minimize actual risk of fatality. Her own bullet grazed his shoulder. Medical attention will mean it's going to just be another scar to add to his collection.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, voice raw and angry, eyes glassy but focused on her and furious, and she ignores him, continuing to cut the restraints at his ankles.

"Can you stand?" she asks him quietly, not waiting for an answer as she rises, offering him a hand to do the same.

The Concierge of Crime's eyes dart to her hand and they both look at it, smeared with her blood and his, but he takes it anyway and struggles to push out of the chair. Dembe enters the room, having judged from their voices and the lack of gunfire that it's safe. He takes Red by the arm, the less injured one, as Liz slips a plastic tie around the injured man's wrists.

Her eyes don't leave his as she secures them, willing him to understand she's still sticking to the script they agreed to so many months before. "Oh don't look so shocked, Red. You had to know I was in the game, too."

"You always were an 'all-or-nothing' kind of woman, Elizabeth," he declares, his tone measured and smug. He sways a little on his feet and Dembe's grip on his arm is now secretly supportive. "Always had a thing for passionate women."

"Look where that got you," Liz replies, easy and winter-cool. "Don't make this harder than it has to be. You know better than anyone just how capable Dembe is of subduing people."

She hears Manuelo both in her earpiece and in person confirm that their target has been acquired as they head out into the hallway with Red in tow. She and Dembe share a look as they meet with the team's leader and the only other surviving teammate with him.

There's four members of the first wave team on the other side of the building still, a few outside guarding the vehicle they'll be leaving in, and another two men who stayed behind in the surveillance van to monitor everything as well as scramble Rockland's communication methods. The other surviving men continue to radio in their locations and Liz knows it's going to be a close call. They'll have at least one other person in the vehicle with them when they go.

Liz moves closer to Dembe, a half step in front of him as she tells Manuelo they need to move out before anyone else tries to swoop in, and her body masks Dembe's free hand moving into his pocket. He's hitting send on a text to the DC geeks - they'll kill Manuelo's comm link in five minutes.

"Keep the others in place, there are a few members of Rockland's crew that aren't accounted for. Let's get him out of here and have them follow behind us - too many cars and they'll know we've got him," she instructs as they begin to walk down the main, open staircase to the double glass doors of the building.

It takes every ounce of willpower on her part to continue to look ahead and not check on Raymond behind her. A glance back will betray her concern.

She keeps looking forward on their way out into the sunlight and on to the van.

Manuelo helps them swiftly get Red into second row of seats while the other man from his team keeps an eye out and a gun ready in case anyone is waiting, and Liz climbs up beside their captive to prevent the seat from being taken. She gives Manuelo a reassuring nod and shows him her gun at her side, and he takes the passenger's seat by Dembe.

The guard slaps the side of the van and Dembe starts to drive away.

Liz slips her hand into cargo pocket of her pants and finds the long, slim metal container still in its place there. Her movements are blocked by the back of the seat in front of her. Beside her, Raymond sits silent, his lips pressed firmly together, but he watches her actions out of the corner of his eye and sees her twist the cap off the syringe.

Red exhales loudly and clears his throat, like he's bored.

"I always heard the famous Raymond Reddington was a talker," Manuelo says as he glances back at Red, who gives him bland, bored look. The guy is probably a little more confident than usual thanks to adrenaline and success. "Guys I've worked with say you're a riot."

"I don't waste witty lines on a glorified mall cop - it would be lost on you," Red drawls, and Manuelo is so busy glaring at their prisoner he doesn't see Dembe take a turn two streets before the one that would lead them back to their waiting teammates.

"His bark is worse than his bite, Manuelo," Liz assures him breezily and clearly goading the man beside her. "He's all talk."

"Funny," Raymond says instantly, with that laugh that means he is anything but delighted. "I don't recall you ever complaining about how I used my mouth. If I remember correctly in São Paulo, in fact-"

Liz immediately jumps in, raising her voice and keeping the attention of the man in the front passenger's seat on them. "Don't you _dare _bring up São Paulo. You came back to the room shitfaced and smelling like-"

"-Like Stella Santos' perfume, yes I remember. Except I told you _seven_ times that Stella is Marcelo Santos' mother and I can never leave his restaurant without her giving me a bag of her _brigadeiro_ and a suffocating embrace I feel in my back all the way to my chiropractor."

"Like I believe some old lady who makes sweets smells like Farina 1709."

"I never said she was old and Stella takes care of herself."

"You are so full of shit. Do you hear this?" Liz leans forward, tapping Manuelo on shoulder to get him to crane his neck around to see her. "Do you see what I had to put up with?"

Ray takes the opportunity to loop his cuffed hands around man's head, and Liz darts forward to plunge the sedative-filled syringe into the man's neck.

He struggles against them and manages to yank the almost-empty syringe away. He tries to lurch for the steering wheel, but Red holds him back, and the woman is able to pry his hand away from clawing at Red's arm and trap the other wrist reaching towards his gun. They work to subdue him until the sedative kicks in, accelerated by his own adrenaline and raised heart rate.

It's incredibly silent in the car as Dembe plucks a baseball cap off of the dashboard and reaches over to put it on the unconscious man's head, the visor low. Liz shifts him to lean against the window, giving anyone they pass on the street the impression the man is taking a nap.

"Should hold him over," Liz assures Red, who has leaned back in the seat casually as if this kind of thing happens every day.

"This whole situation shouldn't be happening. You both-"

"-We came after you because you needed us, Raymond," Dembe cuts him off, an edge to his typically calm voice.

"I need my business attended to," the older man snaps. "You promised me Dembe, you _swore_ to me you would-"

"Don't think about finishing that," she cuts him off. "You don't get to leave me a _guardian_ and and hold him responsible while you're out there risking your life. I was coming after you, with or without him."

Raymond says nothing, but she watches the muscles in his jaw move as he grinds his teeth and stares straight forward for the rest of the ride. She knows he's scared, and so is she, but they need to be level-headed moving forward.

They pull into a small auto shop, stopping only to pay the shop owner a rolled up wad of cash which he takes from them before sliding the garage door shut behind them and walking off, leaving them alone to park the SUV beside an older model four door sedan in the dimly lit space.

Dembe immediately exits the car to step away from the furious tension in the back seat and begins to inspect the other vehicle.

"Still clean?" the woman asks Dembe as she hops out of the SUV, and the tall man nods affirmatively as he stands back up, satisfied with his search of the vehicle.

Raymond slowly moves to the edge of the seat, gives her a level look and holds his wrists out to her. Neither breaks eye contact when she fishes out of pocket knife and cuts the plastic tie. His lips are unhappily pursed, bordering almost on a grimace from his pain, but he doesn't say anything.

"We'll talk later," she both assures and warns him.

"Good," he responds in a clipped tone and she resists the urge to roll her eyes when he tries to get down from the car without help, but she ends up wrapping an arm around his waist to help guide him to the back seat of the beat up vehicle that will be first of their cars for the day.

Red swallows noticeably at her touch.

It's a six or seven hour drive ahead of them and she's suddenly looking forward to the town car and its privacy divider waiting for them in a town two hours out from here; she and Raymond need to get the initial shouting over and done with - well shouting on her part, probably aggravatingly calm but furious words from him that boil down to both of them being shaken by the events that just took place and endangered the other person - so they can move on to the next part of conversation they need to have.

If he wasn't so injured she's pretty sure things in the backseat would end up going in a very different direction - still might, depending on how keyed up they are and how much pain he's in.

There's noise behind her. Liz spins around just in time to see Manuelo open the front passenger door, gun aimed in their direction, and before she can do a damn thing, he fires.

Beside her, Raymond grunts and drops to the garage floor.


	17. In This the Ending of the World

**A/N: Just borrowing the characters, don't own nor claim to own them, yada yada.**

**Looks like I'm resolving my 'Red gets shot' cliffhanger before NBC! :) Thank you for your continued reading and reviews - your feedback puts a big stupid smile on my face.**

**Reminder, if you are reading this anywhere other than ffnet or ao3 or have had to pay for access to this story, you are reading a stolen copy of this work. Please notify me at hasfar2gofics .**

**Title from 'Gold Rush' by Mirah - the song is added to the 8tracks playlist for this fic (found in my profile).**

* * *

><p><strong>July 2014<strong>

**L**iz sees a hint of brownish, rusty red underneath a fingernail and bolts from the room to wash her hands again.

By the time she's reaching for the soap, she's shaking again, shaking so badly the bar of soap tumbles into the sink and she leans against the edge of the counter, hunching forward and trying to breath her way through a wave of nausea. The noise of the running water grates against her nerves and she tries to will herself to hold it together, get her shit together in this motel room bathroom, because they're not safe yet. Raymond isn't safe yet.

If she closes her eyes, her mind will replay the worst parts of the last few hours - she'll see and feel his blood on her hands as she kneeled on the narrow floor of the backseat of the car as she tried to keep pressure and elevate his leg and they raced away from the city, away from the jet for fear of a trap. She'll remember the feel of Red's fingers clenching in the sleeve of her shirt when they went over a particularly hard bump, pulling so hard the collar of her shirt is now stretched out. She'll remember repeating 'It's okay, it's okay' over and over again to herself and him throughout the whole process, frantic and willing it true.

It turned out to be a graze, a shitty one, deep, but he was going to be fine. They could thank the sedative in Maneulo's system for making it a poor shot - she surmises she was the intended target, since killing Raymond would have negated the reward for his capture.

She's going to remember her own scream - she's been so strong up until this, learned to handle these situations with a degree of calm that would have surprised her old self - as she had gone to grab at Red's falling form beside hers, how rage had burned in her veins as she'd twisted, gun already drawn. Dembe beat her to it though; he was the one who put the bullet between Manuelo's eyes.

She wipes her hands in the scratchy towel, dingey white, while muttering out loud, apologetic and angry at herself, "We should have dumped him from the van, I shouldn't have wanted to-"

"-It's done, Liz," Dembe assures her from the hotel room, checking the clip in his gun and hiding it away in his waistband.

"It's not _done_!" she hisses, trying to keep her voice down so she doesn't disturb the dozing man on the bed. "Compton still wants him dead. Manuelo's crew is probably looking for us right now...word is most definitely out that Red is here. This isn't even funny, it's so far from-" she has to stop to catch her breath, a shaky thing, and she holds it for a second, composing herself.

"I'm sorry," she says with a heavy exhale. "And I'm sorry I didn't listen to your suggestion in the first place; I just didn't want another body on our hands - didn't want the complications that would have come with killing someone from that team. They're _good_, and I didn't want them coming after us."

Dembe puts a warm hand on her shoulder, a small gesture accompanied by a comforting look, and Liz feels a little of the tension in her shoulders lessen; his forgiveness and acceptance of her apology help more than she can explain, and again, she is reminded of how fortunate she feels to have this man on her side.

"Thank you," she says quietly, with an appreciative smile.

"I need to make a few phone calls, make sure the doctor is waiting when we get there," he explains. He jerks his head in Red's direction. "He will try to get up; he doesn't handle the prospect of recuperation in situations like this very well."

"I don't think any of us likes sitting still...I'll do what I can."

Dembe exits, leaving her in the silent, dimly lit room alone with her thoughts and the very still form of Raymond Reddington on the bed.

Too still. Too quiet.

"How long have you been up and how bad is the pain?" she asks as she turns to him, immediately trying to let her anxiety shrivel up, at least a little for now, as she focuses on him.

"Minutes and manageable. High tolerance." he replies, voice gruff from sleep and pain killers, trying to sit up with a grunt of effort. Liz takes the two steps that bring her to the bed, perching on the edge and gently pressing on his shoulder; immediately, he stops struggling and settles back, but watches her wearily.

He's going to scold her, scold them for coming after him.

Liz waits, face carefully blank, expectant.

"There were smarter ways to have handled this," he declares and she can't stop herself from taking the opportunity.

"Is that self criticism or are you talking about my actions?"

He glares, lips pressed firmly together with disapproval, and a cut on his jaw draws her attention to the way he is clenching it.

"Well it's over and done," she tells him flatly, and twists around to grab the water bottle on the bedside to get some fluids in him. "And when Dembe comes back, the three of us can discuss this." She twists the cap off the bottle viciously, turning back around to offer him the bottle and leans in to help him bring his head up for it.

"You two have grown close, you and Dembe," Raymond states, voice careful and calm, and his gaze steady, like he's preparing himself for something.

She seethes.

"Go fuck yourself."

He snorts, a childish noise that immediately grates on her nerves. "You listened last time, are you going to watch this time instead?"

She ignores him and redirects the argument. "Of course he and I have grown close," she snaps. "That's what happens when you have to work together, pretending that you've betrayed someone you care about, when you chase that man around the world because he stops communicating with you and you have to go after him before he gets himself _killed_."

"I had it under control," he's quick to defend as she takes a breath to continue and whatever she was about to say is lost to even herself in the bloom of anger and frustration at his words.

She wants to lash out, wants to feel something break or fall to disarray but instead she makes herself take a deep breath, hold it for a second or two, and let it back out. That destructive energy needs to be saved for better things than this.

"Drink," she commands, and lifts his head with clinical care. He keeps his unfocused and sullen eyes on her as he does so, and continues to as he brings an uncoordinated hand up to his mouth to wipe it dry.

The bottle is returned carefully to the side table before she speaks.

"You didn't," she refutes, in a tone and with a look that says she does _not_ want him to argue with her, particularly when they both know she's right, and he's still under the influence of the drugs. "You were holed up somewhere in Cambodia, in the middle of nowhere and off the grid and you _still_ got caught in some barbershop. I don't remember passing the cavalry on my way into that room during the shoot-"

"-_That_, by the way, was the most asinine thing I have ever seen you-"

"-You would have had a _bullet in your head_ or would be on your way to it if we hadn't gotten there when we did."

"What do you want from me, Lizzie?" he asks, more impatient than she's ever heard him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded. "A thank you? For saving me? For risking your life for mine?"

She shakes her head furiously, and her eyes sting. "You really didn't think we'd come for you?"

He breathes heavily through his nose and looks over her shoulder and not at her. His ocean-in-winter eyes are glassy, but right before he speaks there's that small wincing tic that lets her know he's uncomfortable with the topic and her gut twists at being the cause of it, but she holds steady. Does he give them so little credit, or value himself so little?

"I have been doing," Ray says, each word as measured and quiet as they can be for him right now, and she watches him swallow before continuing, "everything I can to keep you safe. I would have continued that...until the end."

Liz stares at him openly. It takes her a second to recover, to adjust to the weight on her shoulders, and get to a point where she can trust her voice to speak.

It's still a feeble raw thing when she uses it. "You wouldn't have said that last part if you weren't high as a kite."

"Probably not," he concedes, voice deep but colored with an even darker humor, and his eyes are drooping as he admits he can't hold off sleep for too much longer. "But it's still true. Doesn't change my choice."

She wants to say something about that, about how she's had a chance to choose as well, but she wants to have that conversation with him when he's awake and truly alert. She wants them both to remember it, because it's going to carry importance.

Instead, she lets her own shoulders curl, and she runs a comforting hand delicately over his head, through hair that's longer than she's ever seen it, avoiding the cuts and bruises. He exhales heavily through his nose, and at the end of the sigh there's a bit of a noise in the back of his throat; it's a childish noise, almost needy. His eyelashes appear darker, and clumped together against the wetness on his cheeks, which are thinner than she's ever seen them. All of him is thinner than she's ever seen, stubble on a face so typically well-shaven. There's a brittleness to him that makes her think of family members and oncology units and waiting for death and her throat feels tight, so she her hand curves a little more, possessive and delicate.

In the darkest part of a dim motel room, the former FBI agent watches over the sleeping form of one of the most sought after criminals in the world. Elizabeth Scott's heart pounds furious and dizzying in her chest, and it's hard to breathe as she feels a wave of fierce protectiveness threaten to overwhelm her. Her hand continues to skim over his scalp, and she tries to match her own breathing to his.

Outside, she can hear children playing - one of those kids has been given a cell phone, and they're to call her at the first sign of any other strangers in the area of the motel. The cash they'll receive when the trio leaves has bought their help for the day.

Time passes slowly as she waits in tightly coiled silence, and it's another hour and a half before Red wakes back up, and in pain. He surfaces into consciousness with a hiss of air and an alertness which has her immediately rushing to assure him he's safe, that she's there.

Liz isn't sure she deserves the amount of trust Raymond must have in her when he instantly calms at the sound of her voice.

They're back to arguing minutes later when it becomes obvious he won't be able to make it out of the bed and into the bathroom, but she tries to allow him as much privacy as possible after helping him sit up and shift to the edge of the bed, and hands him the ice bucket. The event leaves him red faced and terse with her for a short time afterward.

"Where are we?" he asks after a few tense minutes of silence between them.

"Sihanoukville," Liz informs him. "We had a plan to head for Song Saa, but it's just too difficult to secure, and we had to stop more than we anticipated for supplies for your leg and to swap cars along the way."

He nods, thoughtful but removed and clearly unhappy.

"Peter Donner," he says suddenly, in a voice that tells her he's winding up for a long story. Even bed-ridden as he is right now, he takes on the air of the well-suited and hatted man she'd originally met, and Liz feels her own face go slack as she tries to remove herself slightly and remain patient with him.

"He's got a place in Thailand, middle of nowhere. _Gorgeous_ waterfront property - they're a dime a dozen there, granted - that strikes the right balance between modern amenities and that eco, roughing-it, mambo jambo so many of these young and rich types want on their vacation. Last I heard he was in some trouble with the feds and it was sitting vacant. He had this chef who would make the best jambalaya I've ever had outside of New Orleans. _Total_ knockout, wore these tiny little skirts and if you came around the corner at the right time when she was bending ov-"

"-It's about five hours from here. That was one of the back up plans," she cuts him off rapidly and impatiently, knowing there was more than a tinge of green to her voice. She just saved his life and he wants to play the old game, hide behind that character; it's a defense mechanism, she knows, but she has not tolerance for it. Not now.

He frowns. "You knew about Donner's arrest?"

"I _caused_ Donner's arrest," she replies testily, and busies herself with the med kit they'd grabbed on their way out of the city and opens it at the end of the bed.

"Hell of a move," he remarks, wintery and tense, and she takes packaged gauze out of metal hinged box and starts going through the contents, intently working to prevent herself from snapping at him.

"We didn't wait for confirmation that you were definitely here before we started trying to get some safehouses in place. We had to prepare as much as possible; it wasn't like you were going to be sharing your travel itinerary with us anytime soon."

He huffs, and it descends into a dark laugh. "How many time do I have to tell you, I was-"

She snaps the kit's lid shut furiously. "Do _not_ talk down to me, Raymond. I know full well what you were trying to do, but you made these decisions for you, and for me, and for Dembe, without any real input from us. When I agreed to this, I thought you'd take care of yourself. I thought you'd-"

Her phone buzzes. Dembe's calling to let her know he's on his way back, and that she should start prepping Raymond for the drive.

She tosses the injured man the pill bottle with the painkillers in it, and he catches it with only a small fumble, and she walks back over with her water bottle and when he reaches up to accept it, struggling to sit up at the same time and muttering a disgruntled 'thanks', she slides her fingers to ensnare his, and he looks up at her. It's a manipulative move, one they're usually above with one another, and his feelings about it are clearly displayed on his face.

"I want to stop being angry for just...just a few seconds. Can we both try to just _stop_ for a minute?" she asks him, voice rising at the end, wavering. "Please?"

The injured man looks up at her, his face set seriously, brows drawn and lips set firm and thin, and she beseeches him as best she can.

"I just got you back, Raymond."

It's the name that does it, and she knows it. They're in private, this isn't a typical situation, and she really _honestly_ needs to have a moment where she can just appreciate that he's here, alive, in this room with her. She can't let her guard down entirely, but just for a second, it might help her. The prospect of some hours' long drive in stressed silence is unbearable.

His head dips minutely in assent, and he pulls the water bottle out of her hands and tosses it on the thin sheets next to him.

"Help me to sit up," he requests, and she does, perhaps letting her hands linger on him a second more than necessary, because she's spent the last few months chasing him down, always missing him by such a small increment of time, but she has him right now, she has him back.

Careful to avoid too much strain or contact to his injured leg, they maneuver to position him with his back against the wall; when she goes to stand back up, he pats the spot next to him, and she gives him a confused look.

"Humor a dying man, Lizzie."

Liz feels her gut twist. "That's not even funny, Ray."

He shakes his head. "You're right. I'm sorry," he says quickly, and he means it. "Please."

This was what she was asking for, wasn't it? She crosses to the other side of the bed and slips onto the mattress. It's a small bed, and their sides brush against one another. He takes up her hand in his own, and raises it to his lips. She watches him kiss her knuckles, scabbed and bruised and dirty as they are, and she dips her own head to kiss his shoulder before pressing her forehead against it.

He was a criminal in a box, a dangerous present that had presented himself to the FBI and declared loudly that he was intended for her and her alone and he's wrecked the little normalcy she could ever call her own, and she's hated him for it. Not now, but she has. Right up until the second the pen had entered into his neck, and she'd felt a strange thrill at it, at the way he'd yielded to her then, hadn't fought back as she'd threatened him. Curiosity and anger had caused the ground to crumble under her feet. It's been a give and take since then, like a dance and she's trusted him to be her partner in it without even fully being aware of it.

It's strange, tracing the path that has brought her to this place, clinging to that same man like he is her raft on a chaotic sea. Side by side with Raymond Reddington in a tiny bed as their world crashes down around them.

"_Breathe,_ Lizzie."

He gingerly shifts, bringing an arm around her back to cup the base of her skull, and when she brings her head up he's turning his own, seeking her lips with his. The kiss is short, but it's fierce and reassuring and possessive, and Liz turns into him as he pulls her closer, and her hand slides across his chest to his neck. Their foreheads rest against one another's and when they exhale, they feel it on one another's faces.

Beneath her fingertips, his pulse races.

"I don't have much left right now, sweetheart," he tells her quietly, in a rough whisper. "But if I can make sure you're safe when this is over, when the storm clears," he stops to swallow. "I'll feel I did something right. Something good."

_I'm not something for you to save, _she wants to tell him, but she's gone about the last few months thinking the same way about him. Can't he see she what wants the same thing for him?

"'The storm'," she repeats and allows herself a tired laugh, her mind immediately recalling that painting, that damned painting, and she realizes they're going to need to change tactics. "If we both keep trying to save one another like this, we're both going to drown."

His hold on her tightens for a split second, but then he releases her. "You're far too clever for this," Raymond comments gravely, almost sad.

She holds his gaze as she replies "So are you," before slipping off the bed.

She stretches, trying to get her mind back into the frame for the work ahead, and gathers up her hair into ponytail. "I'm going to wipe down the bathroom."

She works quickly, cleaning the space as Mr. Kaplan and Dembe have taught her to. There's no reason after they leave that anyone should be able to trace them back to the room, as long as they continue to cover their tracks as they have been. There's an always-present sense that someone has eyes on her back these days, but she knows it comes with this life.

It doesn't take long; she's efficient for her part of this clean up. One of Kaplan's local associates will be coming to complete the work just after they're gone.

"I look ridiculous," he mutters as she gets Red out of the bed and into a chair closer to the door. Part of Raymond's discomfort has been his lack of pants - the pair he had been wearing were completely ruined between the wound and the resulting blood. They'd gotten him into his current dark button down earlier while he was still mostly out of it but Dembe would be returning with a pair of sweatpants.

"You look alive to me," she bluntly replies and strips the sheets off the bed, putting them in the garbage bag she's been bringing with her as she travels around the space.

"You're wearing one of my shirts," Red notes at one point and she looks down to verify.

"It was a black t-shirt in a drawer in a safe house. It was there," she explains as she continues the cursory wipe of the bedside table and its contents. He makes a small noise of protest.

"You're using bleach and wearing a $250 John Varvatos shirt."

Liz gives her head a toss and then resorts to using her forearm to wipe a nagging strand of hair out of her way before giving him a chastising look; he's just looking for something to complain about right now. "You're the one who bought a $250 t-shirt, Ray," she counters.

It shuts him up for a moment.

"Looks better on you, anyway," he replies quietly, and Liz keeps her head down and continues to scrub, masking the upward pull of her lips.

Some of the tension of earlier is lifted, but she knows it is more than likely that at some point in the next few hours ahead something might cause an argument again; she values their parody of peace while it lasts.

Dembe returns, giving her a quick nod - for as much as Raymond talks, Dembe doesn't, and it makes their job move swiftly. Everything is gathered, they get Red into his pants, and just before they leave the motel room behind them, Dembe extracts a pair of cuffs from his pocket.

"For appearances, Raymond," he assures his friend.

Red holds his wrists out without comment. For a man who is practically an escape artist, he finds himself in cuffs very often.

He quirks an eyebrow when she immediately get the cuffs off of him once they start to drive away.

"We could be stopped along the way," he warns her as she slips the gun from her waistband onto the seat.

"You've got an injured shoulder and a leg you can barely put any weight on but you can still shoot," Liz returns. "When we switch cars the cuffs will go back on during the transfer."

"Bringing back memories?" he asks holding the metal up to eye level by a cuff hooked on two fingers.

He can't be serious. It's her turn to raise an eyebrow.

The man seated beside her in the otherwise silent car responds with a blank look, but his eyes are already darker; they're shining just a little too bright.

"Turnabout would be fair play," she cautions him quietly, very aware of just how little space there is between their seat and Dembe's. It's not like their friend isn't aware of what's between them, but the man is dragged through enough by both of them. She's reminding Red of the actual actions that took place when one of them was handcuffed, and not whatever that memory has become in his fantasies: when she got left behind with swollen lips and the echo of a click of teeth and he walked away.

He meets her steady gaze with his own, challenging, and Liz is the one to look away, out the other window.

"Let's wait until we've had the doctor give you a look over before we discuss that," she declares, voice low. There's a clink of metal; the cuffs are back on the seat between them, beside the gun. Without turning around, she already knows what his reaction probably is, and when she spares a glance over at him, he's looking out his window, a smile tugging at his lips, despite his exhaustion.

He falls asleep soon after, his head against the glass.

They make the first car switch, and Red attempts to walk between the two vehicles on his own, as if to disprove Liz's earlier words, and luckily Dembe grabs his uninjured arm to brace him.

The rescued man tries to keep himself awake by asking them questions about their newest deals, updates on Aiza, Nada, and Shiza. They tell him about the security team already preparing the house for their arrival in Thailand - men who had protested Liz's takeover and had quit out of loyalty to Red. Dembe had met with them to explain the situation, and they'd come back, explaining to anyone who asked that they'd wanted higher pay but had come to an agreement with Elizabeth Scott that it was better for their health to remain in her employ.

When everything is said and done, there will be changes within their ranks, or at least new names to add to their list of people to only cautiously do business with; far too many people in his confidence or payroll were eager to swear their allegiance to her.

Liz keeps her part of the conversation going in a lulling voice, soft and close as he sits close to her, leaning into her. Before long, his head is resting on her shoulder and his torpid breath is loud in her ear. Dembe looks back when the backseat is silent for more than a minute, catching her eye in the rearview mirror, and she nods. She leans further back into the seat, doesn't disturb Red's sleep-heavy hand on top of her's on his unharmed leg.

They drive in silence, making good time. She feels like she's holding her breath for most of it.

The sun is down by the time they reach Donner's house, but after hours of traveling dark roads, mostly uninhabited and dirt, she is relieved to see their security team at their set up checkpoint before they continued on. Seeing the lights glowing welcomingly from within the house through the trees, Liz squeezes Red's leg and keeps her voice low.

"We're here, Ray," she tells him as he wakes up; he barely startles, and if he hadn't been leaning into her she wouldn't have felt the jolt in his muscles or heard the small quick sniff, and she would have known he reacted at all. "Donner's," the woman reminds him.

He takes in the sight of the house and the light outside of the car and against her side, he relaxes slightly.

There is a lot of wood and thatched roofing and glass and clean white that she sees on her quick glance. A second and scrutinous study confirms that the security system their team installed isn't obviously visible. It's a small group of men guarding them, the loyal remainders of Red's Army, but these are men she can truly and absolutely trust.

Jack, a burly, older man with a silver ponytail, greets them and assist with getting his employer out of the car and into the house with Dembe.

"Ray, man," he says and whistles while shaking his head. He's got the California slow drawl of the kind of man who spent his time protesting the same wars Jack helped to win, and Liz has always found it to be almost laughably contradicting. "Jesus, you look like shit."

"Good to see you too, Jack," he replies dryly. "Always dragging my ass to bed after a rough one."

"It was a lot less bloody back in school, man."

Dembe shakes his head at the conversation on Red's other side, giving Liz a knowing look before they precede her into the house.

It's jarringly clean and bright inside, and for a moment Liz shies away from it, cringing. The foyer pours into a space with a table to one side and kitchen equipment and a curved high island counter on the other before the floor drops to divide the area from the living room dominated by white inviting upholstery. Above, the two-story ceiling rises to a steepled point; a collection of antiqued metal lanterns in varying sizes and heights drop from the center. Beyond the room and the glass window is a long, narrow pool in the courtyard, protected on both sides by strips of lush grass studded with unlit torches and twin wings of the house, jutting out towards the inky, sparkling darkness of the beach and the ocean.

It's far from the caves and derelict apartments she'd imagined a man like Raymond Reddington to hide out in when she'd first read his file at the P.O., although she's seen more than her fair share of those kind of boltholes of his recently, and stayed in many of them.

There is a sense of calm and security in this house; it's what they need right now.

Mr. Kaplan comes around the corner from the wide open hallway to the left-hand wing, a blot of black against the bright, sees Liz, and gives a curt nod of the head in greeting.

"They're setting him up in a room, doc's already in there giving him a look over. He'll give you an update when he's done setting him up."

The Cleaner gives her a once-over, pursed lips pressed together more than normal, and whatever is seen or not seen is met with approval.

"I'm sure you're barely holding yourself together, but you can't tell it. Not really."

Liz nods slowly and appreciatively, knowing it's the closest thing to a compliment she'll get from Kaplan. "Going to freshen up," she says, excusing herself and knowing the information will be relayed if the doctor or anyone else is looking for her.

Jack and the security detail have taken the rooms in the right wing, per their agreement for rooming. Liz walks down the left hand hallway, past Raymond's room where she pauses at the doorway at the sight of an IV line and spots the dark red and clear bags attached to it. Blood loss and dehydrated; they did the best they could on the fly she knows, but it still makes her stomach churn seeing how much care he still needs. The doctor's back is to the door, leaning over Red, but Dembe spots her and gives her a reassuring look.

She walks away just as Ray starts to turn his head towards the doorway.

The hallway takes a sharp right and a stairwell leads to lower level of the wing; the hill the house is built into hides this floor when you're driving up to it. Liz had volunteered to take a room on the floor below when they'd planned it out, but now, as she ignores the luxurious looking shower and simply splashes water on her face in her bathroom, she feels anxious at the space between her and Raymond. Dembe's room is a few steps from his, and he's far better suited for the role of safeguarding the man.

And yet…

She changes into dove grey lounge pants, linen and loose-fitting (more-so than intended, she realizes having to tug the drawstring more tightly on them than in the past), and a white tank top. The ocean breeze and dropping temperature have her grabbing at an oversized cream colored sweater and when she catches her appearance in the mirror on her way out of the room, she looks more like some wealthy housewife on vacation than a crime boss who has stolen back one of the most wanted men in the world in a blaze of gunfire and blood. She's still a little numb, still hasn't processed it all.

Barefoot, she pads her way back upstairs to Red's room, finds the door closed and before she has a chance to even begin to wonder why, Kaplan is calling her name from the kitchen area.

The physician is writing in a notebook at the counter when she enters. He's young, only recently out of school, but he was an EMS before that and had become involved in their work like his father was before him, but the son doesn't carry the same faded and regretted bratva tattoo. He bears the same gratitude towards Red for help getting out, but not the guilt. Liz has found he's a quick thinker, and despite his youth, he's not nervous when it comes to the work they have required from him in the past.

"What are we looking at, Petya?" she asks in lieu of a greeting.

"Leg wound is bad, but it's been treated. Stitches and rest for that for now. He's got some incisions, abrasions...cleaned those up as best I could. Giving him an antibiotic to be on the safe side. The blood loss isn't too severe but he's getting an infusion. Long term, I'm gonna monitor and correct the dehydration and malnutrition - they've been going on for some time, combined with the sleep deprivation."

Kaplan gives her a sharp look at that, and Liz pointedly ignores it. Kaplan's been critical of how she's been taking little care for herself for some time now.

"So in short, Raymond is one lucky asshole," Mr. Kaplan summarizes with a shake of the head. "Nothing we didn't already know."

"How long can we keep you, Petya?" Liz asks the young man. He's in his last year of his residency, so she tries to keep her abuse of his time to a minimum unless it's an emergency like this.

"I'm good for a few days - they think I've had a family emergency - so I'll be able to get Mr. Reddington over the worst of his recovery. As long as we get through this without any signs of infection or other setbacks, with Dembe here as my eyes and hands, I can manage the rest by phone or video chat."

Liz nodded. "I don't have the same degree of experience or training as Dembe, but show me what I can do to help as well."

"Of course."

He excuses himself and wishes them a good night, heading to his room in the left wing, the third room on the same floor as Raymond's. Mr. Kaplan walks over to the kitchen counter to retrieve the ever-present pack of cigarettes and lighter from the handbag there and meanders out one of the doors onto the grass, and Liz follows, for lack of anything better to do, wrapping the sweater more tightly around herself to ward off the evening's chill.

They're just outside of Raymond's room, which is the closest to the main hub of the house but still designed to allow him a view of the ocean from the double glass doors leading onto the grass. The lights are low in there, but still bright enough for her to see that Dembe has pulled a chair close to the edge of the prone man's bed, and they're deep in conversation.

"I don't think I've ever seen Dembe that angry before," Liz comments quietly, not wanting the two men to hear her.

"He's calmer than Buddha, usually," Kaplan says. "But I think even the most serene of people would crack after enough time with Raymond."

Liz lets out a laugh at that, and looks at the Cleaner beside her, who has been visibly more relaxed since Petya spoke with them.

She's known Kaplan long enough, and dares to test the water. "And yet we're all here with him, still."

"'Here' is relative. Some of us got on a plane to be here," Mr. Kaplan reminds her. "Other people went through hell."

Liz tears a hand through her hair and stares out at the darkness, listens to the surf. "Why do you always do that?" she asks, exhaling heavily. "I am...more than well aware of what I've done. What I do for him. I know my reasons."

"Because I remember when I met him. He had just fled the States. He was scared shitless. More of a boy than a man. I remember his guilt the first time he called me, referred by someone I'd previously done work for. He was guilty but willing to own his actions. I remember his hands shaking.

"I became Mr. Kaplan because I had spent years being very good at being very clean, and very neat, and as a woman, it's called _housekeeping _- it's domestic and expected and you cannot commodify yourself with those traits. I made myself into Mr. Kaplan because Mr. Kaplan is efficient and pristine and thorough," the woman's voice was practically a rasping growl, and Liz fully understands the low-simmering anger in her words, has felt it but never been able to so accurately put a finger on it. "I _choose_ to be Mr. Kaplan, professionally."

She jerks a thumb in the direction of Red's room. "I don't know the half of it - I know you do, though - but I certainly know it wasn't all entirely his choice. But he's owned it. He's committed to this. I know a little about the daughter. I know about the wife: I'm the one he called in Kuwait to help to make her body disappear."

She pauses to take a furious puff of her cigarette, and Liz can see her hand is trembling. She sways a little on her feet, enough to block the light from the house and shroud the older woman in protective darkness. This has clearly been something she's wanted to say for some time.

"He is a good man, beneath everything, he has a humanity you don't find often. Losing that would be very unfortunate."

Liz fights to keep her voice even, to remind herself that Raymond's burrowed underneath the calloused skin of this woman, just like he has with her, and that he's Kaplan's main focus of worry right now. "I don't want him to lose it either," she assures Kaplan. "But that comes down to him in the end. I can't...I want to help him. I just can't - I won't be solely responsible for it."

When Mr. Kaplan doesn't respond Liz tucks the sweater around her, facing the water, and shifts on her bare feet, wriggles them in the grass for comfort.

"You don't have to like tha-"

"-I understand it," the older woman says, and Liz doesn't turn her head. "I can respect that."

There's muffled laughter behind them in Raymond's room, and it eases a little of the tension in between Liz's shoulders.

"Thank you," she says quietly before walking back inside.

She grabs a water bottle from the fridge and is just at the second stair down to her room when Dembe quietly calls her name and she turns around.

"He's looking for you," he tells her, and she can see his frame seems a little lighter, his face a little more relaxed.

Liz retraces her steps and enters Red's room.

"You should be resting," she declares at the doorway.

He's propped up slightly on pillows in the dim room. Mr. Kaplan's finished her cigarette and the house is mostly dark, the lights all turned off, allowing for the soothing ripples of reflected moonlight off of the pool to play on his ceiling. There's a faint light from IV equipment monitoring his saline drip.

"So should you. Petya put some sleeping pills in my bathroom," he offers and she shakes her head.

"I'd rather not," she tells him, coming to perch on the edge of the bed by his hip.

"Going to prowl around this house then, are you?"

She shrugs, looks down at the comforter on him and smooths it out a little. He lets out a frustrated breath when he looks down at it as well.

"No," she says suddenly and firmly, aware of his thoughts. "This is...right now you are on a _break_, you aren't...I know you don't want to be comfortable, that it's some throwback to your routine from before and that comforters have become some deep-seated symbol to you of _luxury_, but right now you are hurt and you're healing and you need to...I need you to _stop_. Please stop. You were shot at you were almost killed you almost..."

He watches her through her emotional ramble, face remarkably passive even as she trails off.

He covers her hand with his, and her heart is racing, rabbit-rapid in her chest as it tries to flee to her throat and her gut clenches and she stares at him. He's pale and paler still in the silver light she's partially destroyed by sitting before him. He's this man, this broken man in a bed and he is human and frail and he's got bones that can break and a heart that could stop and veins that could bleed out and it could be over in an instant she could lose him like it's _nothing_ and he's _everything-_

She thinks she might be sick.

She covers her mouth and smothers the involuntary and loud breath she sucks in.

"Lizzie."

Even in her sudden and ungraceful clamber over his body to his other side, she avoids touching any of his major injuries and he moves, the little he really can, to lift his arm and allow her to tuck herself in there. She pressed into his side, a possessive, protective arm across his torso and her face in his neck and he's got an arm around her.

"Oh god, oh god," she whispers into his now-west skin. "Oh _god_."

"You're safe, Elizabeth. I'm safe," he assures her as she finally breaks,and everything she's been holding in comes out in a tumble, and he holds her.

He's right. For now, he's safe.

She's safe.


	18. Follow Me Down

**This chapter was a long time coming, sorry for that. Finally earning that M rating this time around - y'all been warned. Chapter title taken from Sóley's 'Follow Me Down'.  
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><p><strong>A<strong> painful grunt wakes her, and Liz pushes up out of warmth and comfort for a split second of panic when she sees Raymond's face pinched with pain. The room is faintly lit by sunlight behind her, and it takes her a moment to rationalize the existence of the IV pole beside his bed.

"Leg," he grits out, and she instantly rolls to her side, careful to lift her leg from its place draped across his, thigh on thigh, directly resting on top of his stitches. In sleep, she must have settled further on her stomach and against him, adding another limb to her claim and coverage of his form.

She tries to raise her weight off of his arm, which had been momentarily trapped between her back and the pillows during her move to the new position, but he pushes himself up a little, huffing, and splays his hand between her shoulder blades, gently bring her back into contact with him but giving her space to remove herself if she wants to.

She doesn't.

Liz tries to relax against him, but her heart is still racing from that startling wake up. She tells him, apologetically, "I guess I'm not really used to sleeping - sleeping with someone anymore."

"Likewise," the man replies, slightly winded, too distracted to dwell on subject. "It was me, I moved my leg," he gives a self-deprecating laugh with a slight shake of his head, "and the pain kind of took me by surprise there."

Liz watched him carefully to see how much he is downplaying this. "Should I go get Petya?"

He shakes his head, and the fingers on her spine draw closer together and apart, and she can't suppress a quick inhale and happy shudder when there's a delicate scratch of his nails against her back. She closes her eyes. "That would require moving," he notes, but there's a tinge of a smug smile to his voice.

"If you're hurting-"

"Drugs are still helping to stave off most of it."

She looks over at the IV and notices the lack of a blood bag. The IV bag has a sharpie'd time on it as well, from early in the morning. Petya must have come in while she was asleep. She really had been out of it.

Liz allows herself to relax more, once she's certain he's not trying to brush of something that genuinely requires medical attention. Raymond makes a noise like a content hum, and she realizes just now that she's been stroking her thumb over the skin exposed between the edges of his shirt, the edge of the digit brushing along the gold and wiry hair there.

"I usually take the other side," she confides.

Within the house, she hears the barking laugh of Mr. Kaplan and the deeper noise of Dembe's chortle from the kitchen area, and beyond the house she can hear the surf and the cry of birds. The sun is gold spilling over the bed and the pair, and the warmth is making it hard to keep her eyes open. Despite the emotional moment that brought her into this position, last night was one of the most restful periods of sleep she's had in a long time, and she's fairly certain it was for the man beside her as well.

She doesn't want to move. Doesn't want to give this up, ever. She could allow herself to forget all the obstacles and threats they are still facing like this.

"We can switch sides tonight," he offers suddenly, and when he becomes intentionally still against her, she can't contain her smile at his accidental forwardness; pushing against the boundaries of propriety he still tries to keep between them, the few that remain, and slipping past them, is something she strangely finds she enjoys. Reminds her of lock picking.

Better reward, though.

His heart rate below her ear picks up a little.

"Any room amongst those thousand dollar suits in your closet for my things?" she teases, resting her chin on his chest. Casual line. Not entirely off of topic but more comfortable.

"I saw what you've been wearing, Elizabeth Kettle Scott," he retorts after a moment, easily, and her slow-growing grin matches his own. "I think there might be room next to my thousand dollar suits for _your_ thousand dollar suits." His smile falls a little. "For as long as we can be here."

"A while, on the conservative side," she assures him. "A few weeks, at least. More than enough time to get you up and walking again so you can climb the steps for the jet on your own. Petya's father recommended someone for your PT and we've had him vetted. He'll be arriving later today. We've got false trails leading to a few different places that should keep Compton and others tied up for a bit."

His voice is flat when he speaks. "You were able to predict all of this."

"No, I just...we prepared. Prepared for the worst. Hoped for the best." She feels her throat tighten as she thinks about all of the plans that were made - surgeons, cardiologists, neuro and pulmonary and anesthesiologists, organs, plasma, drugs...Every possible outcome had to be considered and Liz hated every single one of them.

When he doesn't respond to her but she senses he has something to say, she pushes herself closer to eye level with him and props her head in her hand. "What is it?"

His face is far too impassive as he studies her. "You have no reason to do this," he declares, voice trying for even but still sleep-roughened. "To see to my care like this."

She refuses to allow the quick bloom of indignance she feels to grow when she answers him. It's a comment about his own sense of value, she knows, and less about her own intentions.

"I don't have to, but I _choose_ to. Just as you choose to do the same for me." Liz sobers fully, can't help but voices her observation. "Despite everything. Over and over again. You choose me and I choose you."

Her heart thunders away in her chest, making it hard to breathe. They slip around one another in private, say what would be too much with anyone else, anywhere else.

"Yes," he says, voice raw. She wonders if he's agreeing or promising to do the same, but doesn't try to discover the answer right now. She settles herself once more against him, head tucked his shoulder; his facial hair, grown unchecked, brushes and catches slightly in her hair and she inhales deeply. While Dembe and the physician cleaned him up a bit last night, he still smells of sweat and somehow it is comforting.

His voice rumbles softly through her. "I never wanted you to have to make that kind of decision."

Liz shrugs, careful not to dislodge the arm wrapped around her. "Try as you might, you can't control everything, Raymond."

"That won't stop me from trying, regardless," he replies, wryly.

She knows, and it worries her. Liz stares across the expanse of his chest at the sunlight spilling onto the wooden floorboards for a moment, debating on what she's considering she might tell him.

"Bread and butter sandwiches," she says suddenly, feeling brave enough here by the water, here temporarily safe, here in his arms. It feels important and necessary.

There's a slight difference in his breathing pattern, and she feels his chin move on the top of her head, just a little. It's enough to let her know he's listening, waiting.

"That's what made Sam get back into the business. Bread and butter sandwiches. The garage wasn't making enough money and it was all he could send me to school with. Nobody said anything, I mean, it's not like today...Tom-I know teachers are supposed to be watchful for that kind of thing now." It's easier to keep going without looking at him. It's always been a difficult subject, and she knows she is also speaking of Raymond's friend in a less than perfect light, making for a difficult topic on his part as well.

She takes a deep breath before continuing, somewhat nostalgic, somewhat sad. "A couple of kids noticed - I punched one boy in the arm and got a note sent home. One of the few times I ever saw him cry, it was packing my lunchbox with one of those sandwiches, the last time. I got dropped off at my Aunt Cindy's house that weekend, and he kissed me on my forehead and said 'No more bread and butter'.

"He _loved_ the work, you know he did. He was good at it. He gave it up for me and he got back into for me. Sam was - he'll always be my Dad. He was my Dad. He gave up so much for me and…" she trails off, overwhelmed

Raymond's arm around her tightens and lifts slightly as he presses a kiss to her head, and then her ear, holding her even closer than before, and even while she instinctively turns into it, feels his chapped lips brushing along hers, she shakes her head.

"Don't. I know what you're thinking and no, no if you had known, if you were involved then...we wouldn't be here now. Not like this. And as fucked up as that might sound, I need this."

He kisses her then, deeply, because Raymond Reddington has a habit of trying to fix things, has made a name for himself over the last few decades doing so in ways most people could never understand, and that's the best he can immediately come up with as a solution to her words.

He hauls her up to him as much as he can manage, and she remembers at the last second to be careful of his thigh, stops herself from moving into a better position, instead leaning into his chest against and below her and and balancing herself with a hand on the pillow. His fingers tangle in her hair. She sighs happily into his mouth as his hand brushes up under her top, against the bare skin at the small of her back, and then reverses directions, squeezing the sensitive flesh of her ass.

As things escalate, it takes a lot of power not to straddle him, to remember he's still very much injured and recovering and-

"How's that le-Ms. Scott!"

Liz detaches herself from the man below her, feeling very much like a teenager caught with her hands where they shouldn't be (one of them was, she now realizes) and moves to sit against the headboard, with distance between her and the man beside her. At the doorway, Petya has recovered enough, though redfaced, to clear his throat.

"Mr. Reddington, I think we talked about waiting to resume...activities."

Raymond raises his hands in mock surrender, and she notices he yanked his IV line out at some point. "Can't stop a guy from trying."

Liz debates whether or not she should excuse herself from the room in the blaze of her mortification, but decides against it. She pulls fingers through her hair to try to make it a little more acceptable for company. "That _would_ be one of the first things you ask him," she mutters, and beside her, Raymond gives her a broad smile that leaves her feeling more than just warm from fondness.

He holds his arm out to Petya to restart the IV, not taking his eyes off of her as he does so. "He added it to his instructions after he came in and found you in here with me, to tell you the truth."

Liz pulls a pillow into her cross-legged lap and watches the physician's work, letting the topic drop for the time being. Of course, Dembe enters only a few minutes later, with breakfast for both of them and gives her a knowing grin.

"Shut up," she chides playfully as she accepts a glass of orange juice from him. He perches at the end of the bed and they both listen to Petya's instructions for the day.

Bed rest, of course, but a more thorough sponge bath is on the list of activities for the day along with a dressing change. Liz excuses herself for a time to take care a few phone calls and to check on some business matters. Dembe seeks her out for lunch, and together, they get Red out of bed and into a wheelchair so he can join them for some fresh air while they eat. They both know Raymond well enough to know if they don't help him disobey the doctor's orders, he'll just do it himself and get hurt.

Liz catches Red up on a few of his associates as they eat, Mr. Kaplan joining them only a few minutes later. Lunch is relaxed and feels domestic, very much like that Thanksgiving dinner did months ago. This time she is even more relaxed, less of an outsider and she drinks in the companionship.

Her Mad Hatter seems to be enjoying their tea party as well, and hidden below the tablecloth, takes her hand. The world doesn't feel so strange anymore.

Later, while Dembe and Petya (who barely voices his displeasure at seeing Red out of bed, because he must by now have realized it was bound to happen) assist the injured man in the bathroom, Liz moves her belongings from the bedroom on the floor below and finds spots for them in Raymond's room. There aren't as many pieces to her wardrobe as many would think; she's taken to leaving items here and there at secure locations in her travels, maintaining some essential pieces in her luggage on the jet. There's more relaxed pieces here than she's ever had since she took over for Red.

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth when she runs her hands over the white linen material of the guayabera dress amongst those items, anticipating his reaction to it.

When she returns with the last of her things, she enters to find Red propped up in the bed, a stack of newspapers beside him and the television remote in his hand. He's alone.

He moved to the other side of the bed.

She puts her toiletry case down on the end of the bed and he mutes the tv, watching as she draws closer and leans over him to run an appreciative hand over his head and to slide her fingers over the smooth skin of his jaw and it seems instinctive to kiss him, then. She tastes the mint of his toothpaste, and hums her approval as she pulls back a little, coming to sit on the edge of the mattress.

"You didn't have to switch sides."

"You didn't have to move your things," he points out, and they exchange a look.

Choices. They keep making choices independent of one another that draw them together.

She spreads her own work out beside him on top of the sheets, continuing phone calls and checking stocks as he reads papers beside her, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. At one point he asks for the tablet as she's pouring over an article in _Le Monde_ propped on her bare knee, and she hands the device to him without looking. A few minutes pass before she realizes he's watching her, and she looks over at him, unable to stop the responding smile when she sees his.

"What?"

"In all the futures I ever imagined, all the countless outcomes I anticipated when I walked through the doors of the FBI headquarters, not a single one of them included a situation where this," he gestures with his hand to encompass the bed and the two of them, before he continues, "would take place."

She couldn't have envisioned anything remotely close to this when she'd taken that first step towards him at the Post Office, when she'd seated herself before the Concierge of Crime and watched him watch her with a heavy-lidded gaze.

How she had ever worried he viewed her as some sort of daughter-figure is now laughable to her.

Her grin widens a little as an answer, and she ducks her head and returns to her work. She wants to enjoy their easy companionship and relaxation here as long as she can, but work has to continue.

They break for dinner, eating with the others before retreating once more into their now shared space. Now that the IV has been removed, she helps him change into more comfortable sleep clothes before doing the same for herself and joins him once more on the bed, switching on the bedside lamp since the sun has set.

Another half hour passes before Red asks for the tablet from her, and doesn't wait for her to stop her work on it before taking it from her and placing it on his bedside table. There's a metallic clatter as his glasses are removed and placed beside it before he turns back to her.

"You're going to need your own pair of those," he warns her with a thumb in their direction, "if you don't take a break every now and then."

She's started carrying one of his sets of cheap plastic reading glasses around with her, found she's needed them on more than one occasion. She tells him this.

She recalls seeing an older couple in a restaurant once, years ago, sharing a pair between them to read the menu and when she laughs, Raymond pauses in his efforts to gather up the newspapers he can reach, seeming to watch her as if cataloging the action, and she shares the story unprompted.

She barely finishes the story before he's cupping her face with loving fingers and pulling her close for a kiss, and she swears she can taste his mirth. The implied comparison is obvious to him, pleases him, and that pleases her.

Liz moves closer to him, sliding a hand around his neck to scratch lightly at the back of his neck and he nips at her lower lip in response.

"I like your idea of a break," she whispers as she slides herself a little lower on the bed, and Raymond follows, skims a hand over her stomach to curl around her side, using her as his anchor as he rolls more onto his side, his good leg against the mattress, weight off of the injured one.

The hand on her side descends to curve against the jut of her hip, a thumb hooking into elastic band of her sleep shorts. It's almost the exact spot his hand had come to rest when she'd been in that dress, no seed beads between them this time; his blunt fingernail drags along her bare skin and she kisses him hungrily, but reluctantly pulls back.

"You'll be able to distract me like that soon enough," she assures him, forcing herself to do the right thing and mind Petya's words.

Ray pulls back enough to regard her and her stomach flips at the darkness of his eyes, at the way his lips part and he seems to take particular joy in her involuntary intake of breath as his hand slips under the band of her shorts and chases along the path of the elastic to her lower stomach, quivering at his touch.

"I don't seek to merely _distract_ you, sweetheart" he intones in that low, deep voice he reserves for rare occasions, as he presses a kiss below her ear, before withdrawing enough to gauge her reaction to his words, "I've got bigger plans than that."

The gradually pooling heat between her thighs, so achingly close to where his fingers are now, spikes in a prickle of heat. She can't remember the last time she's been so aroused.

They stare one another down, daring one another to stop or to stop one another, and Liz answers his challenge, her own hand crawling down his front at a tortuously slow pace, her nails pressing into the flesh underneath his shirt and catching on his nipple in a move that gains her a hiss from him until her flattened hand skates over his belly and over his sleep pants, palming the erection that's been pressing into her thigh.

She's never going to forget the way he sucks in a breath and seems to simultaneous grunt when she steals her hand below the fabric and wraps around the heavy length of him.

"_Big_ plans, I see."

And his chuckle vibrates against the column of her neck she finds herself curling her toes. This is so much better than his voice on the other end of the phone, or a replayed memory in the quiet of unfamiliar beds or shower stalls.

He swallows loudly and she grins, feeling victorious. "No need to..to stroke my ego, Lizzie."

She hums, pleased, and his eyes flutter shut as she stroke something else.

He pants and grits his teeth and fights to keep his eyes open as he refocuses on his own efforts, and Liz lets out a shaky exhale as he slides a finger into her and they both groan at the sensation.

They're both too eager to see the other one fall apart, hurrying towards completion like it's a race and they both want to triumph. He makes her promises, swears he's going to fuck her into the mattress and he can't wait to taste her and do so much more and how he should have done this before, in the car or her office or the writer's house or _Cooper's_ _office_ and she whimpers and only ekes out her win by speeding her ministrations and biting down on the over the sensitive scar she'd left on him.

It takes her some time to recover, to catch her breath and for her legs to feel secure below her so she can grab a wet towel and they can clean themselves up after, both insisting on helping the other with the process.

Their actions are far from innocent, but in the days the follow it's like they've triggered some kind of unintended addiction in one another. She takes to doing work in another room so she can actually be productive, and Petya looks like he wants to ask about the scratches and bite marks he's finding on his patient, but thinks better of it.

Mr. Kaplan, who had to leave and return a few days later, not only look on Raymond's progress with getting back onto his feet (begrudgingly with a cane for now) with praise, but cackles when the shoulder of Liz's shirt slips and the unmistakable red, round mark on her clavicle is revealed. Dembe says nothing, and she appreciates it.

The first time their actions escalate and he slides into her, fully and finally joined, they both freeze in shock, as if the last few days may have been a dream, and this is the first time they are truly aware of the reality of what they are doing.

She curls her arms around his shoulders and kisses him, aware they're both crying, salt mingling together like their sweat. They move slow and strong like the waves on the beach and she knows what he's swearing and searing into her skin and how she wants to reply and for the first time in days, feels a sense of knee-jerk panic.

Liz keeps herself from fleeing their bed that night, curls into and around him as she usually does, and even though it shouldn't be a shock to give this a name, it is.

They've been channeling their agitation with being in one place for so long into their intimacy for over a week now. She's been here in this house for over a week, no appearances out there in the world for any of the people paid to surveil her. She needs to shake hands on deals, reassure her associates that her apparent impending victory in the hunt for Reddington hasn't altered business as usual. Compton will make a move if she doesn't do something soon.

It's another day before she shares her thoughts with Raymond, and his face is a careful study in composure.

Dembe helps set up the security measures while they're away, and before Liz can rethink it, it's time to leave. Anxiety climbs in her when she realizes Ray may take this opportunity to bolt, particularly if he thinks she's doing the same.

She tries to quickly come up with something to tell him to reassure him of her intentions as she trails behind Dembe to say their goodbyes. Red is in the gym with the physical therapist, but the man excuses himself to allow the trio to speak in private.

Dembe darts forward, giving the older man a brotherly hug. "I look forward to seeing you upon our return, Raymond," he declares with no preamble.

There's something almost sheepish about Red's thin-lipped smile in response, but he nods and says "I'll be here. Take care, Dembe."

Dembe pats him on the shoulder, then gives Liz a meaningful look before he leaves the room.

The remaining pair regard one another with some apprehension.

It's Raymond that bites the bullet. "We're going to have to make a move soon in this," he tells her, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, like he's unsure what else to do with them, or doesn't want to appear like he's worried by busying them and he puts an effort into making his necessary lean on the equipment behind him appear casual. "Your window of opportunity is closing, Elizabeth."

"Window of…" Liz prevents herself from continuing to echo him. She maintains her composure, but it's a struggle. "I told you before Raymond. That's over. DC? The FBI? It's done." She couldn't return, now that her eyes have been opened. The people she now works with are actually less corrupt.

He turns from her to look out the window and it infuriates her. "You're a smart woman and you know how to take care of yourse-"

She's quick to cut him off. "-If you really think that, then don't insult me by implying I would be willing to allow you to take credit for everything I've-"

He spins around to look at her, stumbling a little on still unsteady legs, eyebrows raised in a rare show of surprise. "-'_Credit'_? Credit has absolutely nothing to do with my worry-"

Liz continues, ignoring his fuming "-Done in the last few months. They were _my_ choices. Mine. I won't let you belittle me. I won't go back to Cooper with some sob story about how Raymond Reddington _seduced_ me and convince-"

"-If you don't think that's believable, we can always say you were blackmailed," he assures her, voice flat and it stings.

"That is _not_…" Liz exhales heavily and goes to run her hands through her hair before remembering she's wrangled it, despite the humidity, into a sleek bun. They both seem to deflate and regard one another with less acrimony. "What is wrong with us?" she huffs, crossing her arms.

"If you really want to delve into that, you'll need to change your flight plans and clear up your schedule for the next month," the man responds drily, and Liz shakes her head.

She changes tactics. Moving closer to him, earnestness appear on her features. "I can't leave with things like this between us," she sighs, and when she leans forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, he moves his head at the last second so her lips brush against his and snakes an arm around her torso, keeping her in place. "I appreciate what you're willing to do for me," she tells him. "But I need you to understand I could never go back there now, and I don't want to."

She feels the tension return to his shoulders, sees the twitch just below his eye. He gives her a long, lingering kiss, almost like a goodbye. "Just...just take some time during your trip to consider the option," he requests, trying to keep the plaintive tone of his voice to a minimum. "Please, Lizzie."

He's been putting her first for decades. It must be hard to alter that mindset. She gives a small nod of her head. "Alright."

They pull apart like it's nearly impossible, and Liz doesn't look back when she walks out.

True to her word, she considers every possibility available to her in the next few days. She's staying in a tidy, modest home in a London suburb and it has a blooming, beautiful little garden in its backyard; despite being adjacent to the local cemetery, it's cheerful.

She kicks off her heels and paces in the grass in between meetings, and finds her eyes coming to rest on the bench beneath the tree at the edge of the property, immediately imagining Raymond seated there, in the shade of that tree, that cemetery in her view beyond him. Her in the garden and him over there. She laughs to herself at it and continues calculating and pacing.

It's useless. As much as she knows Ray will do anything to allow her a chance at running away from this, she knows it would be futile. No matter where she goes, she'll be sought out. Ultimately, she's the one Compton is hunting.

It's a strange feeling, the moment it occurs to her she's been looking at it all wrong. This isn't about Raymond. It's not even about them. It's about _her_. If someone were to look at this, removed and only half-concerned, if this was a story, it would be about _her_.

She was the one who was kidnapped. She's been the one Compton's been after. Everything has happened because of her father's obsession with getting her back.

Raymond Reddington has been caught in the crossfire of _her_ story.

It's a sick kind of laughter that bubbles in her throat then. Lizzie covers her mouth to smother it and she has to take a seat on the bench. The laughter is mixed with tears and she's hysterical in some stranger's garden in the middle of England, because it's never occurred to her before now that she really, honestly, has a say in what happens.

Reality shifts, distorting and twisting like a funhouse mirror, and she's dizzy with it.

Liz resists temptation and does not call to check on him, to ensure he's still there. Dembe doesn't let on if he does, but he looks as relieved as she is when they return to the house and Jack gives them an understanding, toothy grin, and gestures with a quick move of the head. "He's out back."

She moves quickly through the house and out onto the grass.

He's observing the water, hands in the pockets of his pants. The cuffs are rolled up and there's sand caking his feet; he's just returned from a short walk on the beach. Good. She is glad he has made progress. He immediately jerks around to see who it is before he turns back to sedately watch the surf against a backdrop of a storm darkening sky. _Fitting_, she thinks, leaving her shoes and blazer behind her.

She can see the play of the muscles in his arms thanks to the rolled up sleeves of his open shirt and it gives him away; Raymond's hands are in nervous flexing fists in his pockets. He's holding himself just a little too still.

Instead of going along with the pretense of watching the scenery, she studies his profile. She can't ignore the savage beating in her breast as she drinks in his features, tries to do it distantly, like he's some insect pinned down, and she immediately hates the comparison, can't subjectively view him the way she did so long ago.

Her throat and lungs feel tight.

She wants to remember this moment - a little calm before the chaos and the carnage.

Ray's Adam's apple bobs and her eyes fall on the scar she's left on his neck. He could have had it healed, could have taken better care of it. He let it go and left her mark there, just above the line of a shirt collar, where anyone could see.

Giving up the pretense, he turns to look at her, lips firmly pressed together in a grim line. For someone who has spent decades waiting for his own revenge, he does not seem to be a patient man now.

She has to say it, because it's on the tip of her tongue and if she doesn't say it now, she'll end up shouting it or throwing it him with the acid of anger or impatience later. Understanding herself that much is still a novelty, but she likes it.

"It isn't our jobs to save each other," she informs him, her words chosen and spoken carefully. "Lean on one another, maybe, help...We can't - we make our own decisions. We talk to one another. We try to be honest. We care about one another and we want the best for one another. We don't do debt, okay? No debt between us."

Stipulations for a partnership, familiar territory for them both. Calculation and comprehension flash in his eyes, a harsher, wintry blue than the water before them.

His lips part, but he doesn't immediately speak, instead finally saying, "I would appreciate that."

Her chest aches and when she opens her mouth, she's afraid what she wants to say will come out massacred - even after everything that's happened, she's still who she has always been, and these sorts of things don't come easy to her.

"I'm not doing this because I love you."

Her voice catches on the last three words. Internally, she winces because even to her own ears it sounds a little defensive. She forces herself to keep a level gaze, even as the wind picks up and whips her hair around, and she begs him to understand her with her eyes.

For a split second, the man beside her looks pained, but his mind is an always-running, always translating mechanism that processes her words and chips away the tough shell they're encased in; he understands her decision and pries out the other part out.

He knows. That's what matters.

Ray blinks and nods slowly, and when he answers her, it's rough, possibly snagged on those three words as well. "Alright."

The most verbose man she knows and that's how he responds.

He kisses her then, deeply, and for a moment, she lets herself get lost in it, at least until she has to pull away from him to breathe, and presses her forehead against his.

"I don't want to just survive, I want to be happy, and I want _you_," she breathes, eyes closed tight. "And Compton is keeping any of that from happening. If he's what's keeping us from having a chance at peace, at quiet, then I want him gone. I want that...with you." She ignores the fat raindrop that hits her bare shoulder, and laughs, almost giddily, at the relief that comes from saying those words. She opens her eyes to see his reaction. "I want you."

Raymond is looking at her with something like adoration torn with regret. He shakes his head. "After what I've put you through, after what I've done-"

"-Between you and me and the blood we've spilled, do you really think we're not the same?" She cuts him off, knowing that otherwise he'll spiral into guilt. "I'm not some pillar of goodness or source of metaphorical light either. I'm not going to be the person you earn or are owed and I'm not going to wash away your sins."

Another rain drop slides down her scalp and when she shivers, Raymond pulls her closer into the warmth of his body. She grabs his face, a little more harshly than she needs to, because she needs him to understand her, and her intentions.

"I love you," she manages to say, almost guttural and she's shaking from more than wet and cold. "But I'm not doing this for you."

His eyes are glassy, and darkening faster than the sky above them, and when they kiss it brings her back to that first one, fierce and consuming but this time she won't let him go. And it isn't until they hear the low growl of thunder that she grabs his hand and they make their way back into the house, going directly to the double glass doors of their room.

They're soaked by the time they reach them, going slow because of his still healing leg, and when he crowds her against one of the doors, his fingers glide over her skin almost as smoothly as his tongue against hers and she tastes the rain. She arches into him and his heat, contrasting the cool glass at her back, and he yanks the door open beside them, pulling them into the dark space together.

There's something here between them now that wasn't there before she'd left. She thinks it's because he stayed and she came back, like some final test they were only half aware they were giving one another, or going through together. Like some final vow between them.

He backs her into a dresser close to the door with some force, and she hears something potentially breakable rattle and fall on its surface and she can't look away from him, doesn't care enough to see their damage.

He practically claws at her silk blouse, the damp material clinging to her, and it finally peels away like a layer of skin, exposing the flesh beneath to cool air that has her gasping. Her fingers work frantically at the buttons of his shirt, and he helps her speed the process along before he pops the clasp on her front-closing bra and they're pressed chest to chest, rain-slicked and bare and he's pressing open-mouthed kisses to the column of her throat, just a hint of teeth that leaves her groaning.

"...so much," he's rasping into her skin again. "Love you so fucking much."

He's said it before and they've been all but screaming it at one another with their actions, but this is new, it feels new, like some kind of first time all over again.

She pulls him by his belt towards the bed, dropping the length of leather to the side with a metallic clatter seconds before they work to get her out of her skirt, slip, and panties and she watches him loom above her, almost predatory, as he takes in the sight of her nude form on the cool sheets while he finishes removing his pants and boxers and then he's covering her body with his for a brief moment before she pushes and pulls and he's sprawled out below her and she straddles him.

Lowering herself on his length, feeling him fill her so completely, it's like coming home and she can't get the words out right now, hopes she can later.

It starts as fucking; they're going to have nail and bite marks for days, branding one another like they haven't done so in every way that matters already. He takes the opportunity when she's just about to climax to drag her down to him, a hand full of hair, and she complies happily, knowing she's about to feel her back hit the sheets.

He slips a pillow below her and hooks her leg over his arm and thrusts, and she drops her head against the pillows with a groan, and before she knows it she tumbles over the edge with a loud keening noise she's never heard from herself before.

He slows their pace after that, drawing the experience out for both of them, his hands reverently tracing paths along her skin. It's like he's making her over anew, or revealing her in the process. These are the arms that he loves, and they are strong. These are the fingers he loves, and they can pull a trigger quicker than you can blink. This is the heart that he loves, and it loves him so fucking fiercely-

"Sweetheart?" he asks suddenly, worried and she opens her eyes, realizes she's been crying only once he stops. "What's wro-"

"-I just...I love you," she tells him, feels like the answer is simple and yet she can't believe how much it's affecting her, incredibly overwhelmed. She pulls him into her arms and they bury their faces in one another's necks, rising as best as she can to meet him, and she comes quickly in a trembling, beautiful mess when he slips a hand between them, brushing a finger over her clit and she sobs out his name, and he's gasping and swearing and panting her name just a moment later, groaning as the waves of it wash over them.

In the morning, she wakes first, in her customary position wound around him, his arm on her back and the other on the thigh over his hips, and enjoys the moment before he wakes and rolls her over, making love once more before they pull one another into the shower.

By the time the sun is fully up, they're both dressed, the bed is made to be ruined again, and they make their way out of their room to breakfast, hand in hand.

They ought to have something in their stomachs before they prepare for war.


End file.
